Her Lion of Lannister
by QueenOfConsorts
Summary: "She is a mystery to the world, an unfathomable, beautiful being." Ezralaya has not graced Westerosi shores since the day she was born. From then on her whole existence became tainted by secrecy. From enduring poverty to founding a wealth beyond her dreams, she has risen from the ashes. Though now the home of her ancestors calls once again and unexpected love and tragedy await her.
1. Pilgrimage of Clemency

**A/N - **Hello to all my fellow Game of Thrones lovers and any other new comers! So I've been working on this new story this for quite a long time, mainly because the story itself is a complex one, but also because I want to be accurate and precise in my story telling. I have a few chapters written ahead of this one that merely needed reviewing, but before I post more I'm going to wait to see the perception of this chapter to see if it's something people would like to read. This story is based after a Storm of Swords: Blood and Gold, and so continuing after season four for those who don't read the books. It shall be based loosely on the succeeding story, but my own interpretation, therefore only some of story shall be in line with a song of ice and fire. The story for now shall be rated T, but will be upped to M in the future.  
>So without further ado, I hope you enjoy and are intrigued with all that is to come.<br>Please review and let me know of your thoughts, Thanks! 

Ezralaya

Valayria's first daughter lay thousands of leagues away on the southernmost part of western Essos. The celestial blue skies and cerulean waters of Volantis felt like dream that had been dreamt a long time ago. Sweet contemplations of white sunshine and the smell of sweet beets pulverised into scented purple soup as rich as honey were surpassed by the profane sticky air of Flea Bottom.

Her entourage of 5 carriages swept swiftly through the squalor, the pitiful yet disdainful glares of the destitute falling onto the extravagant gold guided carriages pulled by 6 black stallions that had been sent to collect her and her modest retinue from the docks of the Black water. Ezralaya held a handkerchief which had bathed in lavenders up to her nose, in an attempt to alleviate the stench of human depravity.

Through the bronze grates of the carriage windows, she saw the dirtied faces of the wretched, filth tumbling from window tops then splattering onto the uneven ground beneath. A child, no more than a year past her filth name day perch alone on the step of a pot shop spooning brown slop into her toothless mouth. A woman hunched over a fire pit, sat twisting a skewer over the flames with a skinned rat impaled upon the rod.

The labyrinth of alleys seemed to remain in constant shade, so narrow and populated that the sun failed to seep down into the unruly cracks. Except the lack of sunlight came at no avail to the heat, as the humidity cultivated the stench of dying livestock, decaying minds and rotting bodies. It churned her stomach when she realised she was only witnessing the outskirts, it hurt her heart to imagine what the core of this ghastly madness would look like.

Ezralaya had been a waif nigh on 17 years. Westeros had been her home no longer than a day and yet the people of the slums glared at her with eyes of hatred. Whether it was logical abhorrence, envy or their natural worn-down expressions that had their lips curled in aversion she couldn't quite say. Except she did know that she had become very thankful that her guards were walking besides the carriage, as well as the Kings own men, which were scattered right the way down her train.

Her retinue had entered through the Iron Gate and her progression had been led forward, venturing down through the entangled passageways of Flea Bottom. Had she have known the King was going to send her a welcome congregation and lead her down the inferior streets to flaunt the privileges of the rich before the eyes of the unattainable, she may have declined, or more likely, requested that they cross the threshold of the city another way.

Ezralaya did not regress away from the poor, in fact she was the thorough contrary. Heralded as the _Saviour of the Free_ _Cities_, she was recognised as a patron of the meek and lowly. Since acquiring such a vast and immeasurable degree of wealth in her few youthful years, her whole purpose in life had become dedicated to the irradiating the poverty-stricken slums, helping the indigent individuals without a single hope, and even the saving the incarcerated, mistreated slaves of the Free Cities. No matter how much she desired to abolish the trading schemes of Slavers Bay, her rational mind told her otherwise. The trading cycle was too well engrained in Essoi ways, and accumulated so much wealth, that only a few people, if any, would join her plight for parity. Besides, the slavers of Essos were far too dogmatic to permit a seventeen year old girl to obliterate a historic custom central to their culture and ethos. After all, she was only one person, and an overriding majority failed to see the brutality of enslavement.

The people of the Free Cities were not as humane nor compassioned in comparison to Ezralaya. She knew, no matter how long she lived in Essos, she would not be able to adhere wholly to the ways and customs of the Free Cities. Many Volantian's said that she was before her time and Essos was not ready for her desired reformations, whereas she knew that her temperament simply stemmed for her Westerosi ancestors.

Upon her arrival into Kings Landing, Ezralaya had planned to immerse herself within the slums of Flea Bottom, and in turn use her own privileged standing to ease their hardship. However, in her current state of concealed profligacy she felt she could not look at them as equals.

She herself was no stranger to scarcity. She too had lain in the gutter and made merry with vermin, begged for meagre scraps, and implored the rich for a single copper. She had endured paucity and all that went with it. Starvation still haunted her, even when her belly was full of rich meat she could still feel the phantom sensation of agonizing gripes contracting her empty stomach and the ceaseless nausea that came with malnourishment. Even when draped in sapphires or diamonds, the memories of utter desperation loomed over her glorious form like an eternal shadow. She knew that at heart she'd always be somehow wretched and she always wanted to be. She could never let herself forget where she had been, and the lowermost levels she had stooped to ensure her deliverance into another break of day.

It was her pilgrimage of clemency, borne out of the goodness of her heart, which had brought her upon Westerosi shores. Her journey had lead her upwards into the northern lands of Essos, travelling across the western shores upon her maiden Swan ship, visiting Tyrosh and Myr, navigating marginally south to offer the people of Lys her charity and rain a little altruism upon the wealthy. Her entourage then continued north to the Andalos curving into the Free City of Braavos. The fog lay low in Braavos hovering over the shadowy waters and grey stone towers. The air was moist, with a continuous drizzle filtrating through the breeze. Despite its visual dreariness, the climate had come as a welcomed change to Ezralaya, contrasting to the always desiccated atmosphere of Volantis, an ambiance which she had come to love over left Braavos after doing all that she had promised, and then began endeavouring down the narrow sea, drifting over the soft rippling waters, with the land of her past laying ahead as her destination.

It was on the final fragment of their passage, around the nearing region of Dragon Stone that a raven arrived from the Crownlands. The raven, with a message attached, glided down onto her grandiose liner which had been constructed by the finest ship makers known to man, who resided in the Arsenal citadel of Braavos. The Swan Ship had then travelled down the Rhoyne at her bidding, for her worldly voyage to commence. The message attached to the scrawny foot of the resplendent bird, was an invitation from King Tommen; of the House Baratheon. A Thirteen year old boy King. She had heard of the late Kings death during her time in Braavos. The citizens of there always knew of the scandals and conspiracies of the wider world. They talked incessantly about the calamity of the Royal Wedding for passing days, so furiously that one would have thought that Joffrey had been their sovereign. _Thankfully not._

Ezralaya had come to realise since broadening her spheres, that Volantis was regressive in many ways. The people lived a simple life in the sun and troubled themselves not with the on-goings of the western Kingdoms. Braavos was much more broadminded, after all it was named the Bastard son of Valayria, the greatest and most powerful. Brazen women and formidable men colonised the secret city many years ago, and so it only seemed fitting that a city borne out of mystery should become the pivot of worldly riddles. The traders brought over rumours along with their imports and merchandises, the words of the other land would pass through the air like blowing leaves. And soon enough the reprehensible tales were ignited by impassioned Braavosi's and the hearsay proceeded to spread like wildfire. Many of the Kingdoms little birds dwelled in Braavos, so The Free City must also have inhibited indignities worth their little scrupulous ears listening to.

The people of Braavos had educated her about the antiquity of her homeland; from the origins of the seven Kingdoms, tales of the children, stories of the First men, the legends of the heroes. To the contemporary great houses, past and present, their allegiance and enemies and the great tragedies of days gone by. All things she had once known but time had whittled away.

The notelet from the King of the Seven, in blatant terms was in fact a summons, requesting her _gracious _presence at the Red Keep. In politer terminologies it was an invitation to the upcoming royal wedding, between the boy King and the Tyrell girl. As flattering as it was to be called upon by the King, she as well as her trusted companions knew that a hidden agenda would no doubt lie behind the pleasantries. After all the boy had the blood of a Lannister –_or two _as the Braavosi's had cryptically speculated– And she had been warned from an early age that a Lannister was never to be trusted.

As famous as her name was, she had no place at a royal wedding, and hadn't for a very long time. Indeed, the world knew what she was; the richest woman in the known domain no less, but alas, the world also knew how she come to amass such an inconceivable fortune.

Her most trusted Lady and dearest friend, Boeenna, had beseeched her to decline the Kings request, saying her journey was for the aid of the poor, not the rich. Accept it was her audacious disposition and naturally curious nature that made her assent. She knew that the heartening words of the Kings request, had underlying conspiratorial meanings, as it was palpable that the only reason she had been called upon was to be given the chance to publically declare her allegiance to house Lannister, and in turn bestow a large contribution to the war effort. After all, she had been told by a nattering cabin girl, that their house had been shaken into disarray in recent weeks, firstly due to the death of King Joffrey or _Aery's the Third _as the girl had chillingly called him, and then the death of the great Lion himself; Tywin Lannister. Both killings conducted in rather bewildering circumstances, and did not sound to be completely resolved.

Notwithstanding the flatteries that had come in flurries and flutters of passing moon-turns, Ezralaya continued to remain impartial to the war, and undeclared for any war-waging house. Even if all they wanted was her fealty and her wealth, it didn't mean she couldn't go and take advantage of their hospitality, and nor did it mean she would give them what they wanted.

The carriage progressed forward into a central cobbled courtyard. Rhaenys's hill lay behind them complete with the ruins of the Dragons pit, and Visenya's hill ahead. Both majestic formations eclipsed by the lingering stench of Flea Bottom. The carriage took a sharp left turn, and the city opened up like a blooming flower. The sunlight filled the carriage, reflecting off the white washed ground and crème walls following the grounds natural path of a fluctuating gradient. The people sauntered around with freshly baked flat loaves upon trays, women stood cooking cheap meats out in the open air upon a gauze over a flame, and some children teased a stray cat with a ball of rough wool.

If Ezralaya angled her head alongside the diamond cut grates of the carriage, she could see Aegons hill, standing proud and mighty, built upon the rocks of conquerors. The Red Keep towered atop with the sun behind, glorifying its regality and casting a crimson shadow across the closer they got the thicker the shadow loomed. A quivering sensation rippled through her stomach. _It's not nerves _she thought, _just necessary prudence.  
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Her nearest guard, walking alongside the moving carriage knocked on the carriage with the apex of his knuckle to ensure a solid sound would supervene to catch her dwindling attention "We're nearly there Princess." He spoke, "We've passed the gate." She turned to see his kind azure eyes sparkling in between the grates. From their first happenstance, his eyes had posed a bewitching aspect to her fascinations; so authentically candid yet subliminally arcane. Which propounded a stark contrast to his chestnut skin tone. Argo, her head guard, exhibited the appearance of his ancestors of the Summer Isles. Dark skinned and bright eyed - he was a delicacy for the eyes to savour.

She leant forward and pulled open the grate to see him clearly so that his face was not obscured by the wielding of decorative metal. She could see the busied people stepping aside to allow her entourage to pass. Their eyes fixated in curiosity of who was concealed within the passing carriages.

"What does it look like?" she asked in anxious wonder.

"Big" he spoke, "And red." He added. Sweat glistened upon his forehead, his body overheating from the layers and weight of his chainmail and breastplate, emblazoned with her Sigil of a burning phoenix arising from the ashes. "Are you sure about this?" he queried, his voice thick with apprehension.

"Are you doubting me Argo?" she questioned, with her eyebrows raised in jest.

"You know I have only your best intentions in my heart." His hand came up and his fingers sprawled out wide across the Sigil on his chest.

"We have come here to help the destitute, and see the wonders of Westeros, is the Kings Palace not one of those wonders?" she questioned. His kindly face could not help but smile at her innocent justifications, when they both knew that it was her irrepressible curiosity that had them ambling up toward the Red Castle.

"Maybe to gaze upon its exterior, but to dine with its residents is another matter." Argo answered, his eyes averted forward in the direction of their progression.  
>"It's a great honour to be invited to a royal wedding." Ezralaya replied matter-of-factly.<p>

He turned to her, his eyes widened by incredulousness; "An honour? Its insincerity. One bestowed for the purpose of further manipulation – don't let them bend your true honour nor haze your perception."

"I am no fool." Her eyes locked hard onto his. Her tone rigid, yet preserving its usual softness.

"No you aren't" he agreed and heartily reaffirmed. "Forgive me…." he implored. She raised her hand to silence his gratuitous apologises.

She spoke gently, "Hush, Hush. Nothing spoken needs forgiving. I need you to remind me every once in a while that I'm not as smart as I think I am." His lips curved into a timid smile.

He looked on back ahead after a few moments of bashful contemplation, she couldn't help but beam at his usual blushes. "Ready yourself Princess. We're approaching the portcullis." Ezralaya closed the grate whilst he assumed his chivalrous stance, she sat back into the plush velvet seats, preparing for an imminent departure.

They passed through the Iron brandished gates into the Outer Yard, the portcullis lay ahead protecting Maegors Keep; the King's private residences. Since passing through the stately threshold, they had become encompassed by seven immense drum-towers, each crowned with iron ramparts that towered above them as high as the heavens. Ruddy divisions with golden linings filled the extensive Court yards, whilst meticulous stony bridges connecting tower to tower, in which chunks had been sculpted away in the sacrifice of art, as the stone had been carved into formations of twisting vines and delicately fashioned floras'.

The heads of traitors were impaled on iron spikes behind her between the crenels at the gatehouse. A distinct fortification which she knew from tales to be the Tower of the Hand, stood insight beyond the portcullis. It was a rather beautiful structure, with reddened bricks, and a slick slate roof, that glistened in the suns brilliance. Despites its aesthetic beauty, there was something ominous about the looming tower, as though the evil deeds and whispers shared within its confinements had seeped and tarnished the bricks, besmirching its presence. The walls within the imposing barbican knew the truth of the murdered Lannister Lord, yet they would remain silent for all eternity.

The blue sky aligned the magnificent edifices, which grew taller toward the back, the radiance of the day heightening the intricate details of the castle, from the master carvings upon the balconies, to perfectly entwined vines embracing the lower walls. Ezralaya's eyes had been led astray by her surroundings, leading to an overall assault upon her senses. She was captivated by the by the world before her eyes, as its sights danced and gleamed before her vision, utterly entrancing her. Her nose was dazzled by the aromas that prickled pleasurably at her nostrils, and her ears were alert with intrigue, after all she was at the heart of conspiracies and secrets, where scandals' passed through the kingly air as often as a gentle breeze.

So charmed by the worldly blessings of the God's that Argo's hand of guidance reaching inside to aid her leave of the carriage came as an almighty jolt to her system. She had not even realised the carriage door had been opened. All of a sudden she felt immensely unprepared, marginally incompetent and overawed with self-reservation. _I am not like them, I was never given the chance to be. _She thought. _They will never accept me, I will see their mendacity as clear as the day I witness._

No doubt she lived in her own white marble palace back in Volantis, yet the grandeur of the Kings castle had not failed to astound her – She was from another world.

"Are you ready Princess?" Argo asked, his hand lingering in mid-air. "I am told the King awaits."

Ezralaya sucked in a breath of sharp air. "I am ready." She fortified, feeling a hearty shudder of re-emerging confidence seize her body in a crucial way. She reached for his hand, bearing down her weight to take her leave. The white streaks of noontime blinded her, as its earnest beams bathed upon her exposed skin. Flickers and gleams of gold daubed over her face turning her skin to marble, however it was the suns reflection of her dress that had her exterior aglow. Donned in a gown that draped off her body like molten gold, Ezralaya looked ever each the _Princess of Volantis_, a named bestowed upon her by the beholden people of Volantis.

The gown's sleeves were split from top to bottom, the floating golden fabric graced the floor in its length. Her arms remained free from restriction, yet the soft flowing silk always followed her gestures, with the air uplifting its delicate fibres. Three thick bands of solid gold wrapped around her arm in designated spaces, equal gaps apart, with indentations of patterns lined with minute diamonds which brought the bodily ornaments to life. The neckline dipped down low, exposing the soft swells of her pert breasts, whilst the main bodice was segmented down the sides, to expose her bronzed flesh and enhance her womanly figure.

The golden fabric upon her torso was swathed in creamy pearls and buttery diamonds, trimmed by gilded embellishments and tailored with golden strands that seemed as though they had been plucked from the cranium of the sun itself. The opulence continued down past her waist line, the liquid gold seemingly cascading down to the ground like the tumbling motions of a waterfall. A lengthy slit cut the fabric in two, allowing her toned leg to daringly peak through the gap, showing off her solid gold shoes, with a ribbon tied in a bow around each ankle to keep them upon her foot.

A train of over a metre long would trail behind her once she set in motion, gliding along the flooring like a golden ocean crawling up to the shore. Her long, golden hair hung loose down to the very lowermost point of her sculpted back, in thick, undulating tendrils. The side strands of her hair that framed her face were pulled back and fastened with glistening clips cut into the fashion of flower petals. A magnificent headdress which lay diverted from any other likeness, balance atop her head. A creation of spirals and swirls laid the basis for the magnificent piece, complete with five golden arches, in which a golden diamond dropped and hung, wavering gently. The design was majestic and imperial, a true work of art, and evidently like nothing the gawking Westerosi's had ever seen. Crowds of the more humble Lords and Ladies, as well as a few stray common folk stood in gatherings awaiting a glimpse, she could tell by their conflicting expressions that they were unsure how to receive her, even so she smiled sweetly to them.

She understood their trepidation, she carried a notorious name and her infamous disgraces and indignities were disseminated. She had not been so fortunate as to keep her sordid deeds undisclosed. They were common knowledge to the world, those who loathed her for some reason or another had made sure of that.

She turned and saw all ten of her Ladies were stood in the light of the burning sun, each of them dressed in a simple garbs of gold, which fastened around their necks and cascaded loosely down their bodies. A modest gold band perch on their heads, the rest of their hair weaved in plats and twirls to accommodate the clean-cut headpiece.

Their faces shone the shade of trepidation. She smiled softly. "Are we ready?" her voice resonated reassuringly. They all nodded gentle, heartening a tender smile to thrive. Despite their efforts none looked eager to enter the royal palace, apart from the bastard Moonsky twins, Lilia and Lalia, then again they were 10 years old and still had the beauty of ignorance about then.

"Smile sweet girls, the King awaits." Ezralaya looked on ahead, the great doors were opened wide, yet a darkness loomed within. Two guards stood either side, their eyes beckoning her on forward.

With a commanding stride, hereditarily engrained within her, she progressed on forward. Her ladies footsteps pattered behind, five on each side. Her two most cherished; Boeenna Vetusesapienes and Theodora O'Raya; stood either side at the front of their column of golden girls.

A grey shadow passed over her eyes, all seemed a blur, and clarity did not emerge into she came before the Throne Room. Her entrance into the great hall was all that her mind had truly registered since exiting her carriage. The Throne room was crammed and heaving with the highborn, dressed in silks and satins. Despite the already superfluous capacity, the spectators still parted way, offering a direct passage down to the Iron throne.

A castle guard stood thumped the butt of his spear onto the hard marble floor, and heralded; "_Ezralaya Cosalario of Salazay" _She continued to walk forward, pacing to the frantic rhythm of her heart, unfazed by the glaring eyes of those around her, maintaining an unabashed swing in her stride.

She strode passed the first of the great beige marble pillars, ornamented with black marbles verdures encasing the vast cylinder formations. She treaded forward at a brisk pace, her arms swung by her sides, goading her ahead. Her shoulders were pronounced, her back taunt, her head straight and focused, with her chin slightly tilted up into the air. Daylight streamed in through the colourfully stained windows, casting an angelic golden hue upon her gliding procession. She did not let her gaze linger too long upon bystanders, however on the off chance she caught a glimpse, she saw the golden shimmers in their eyes, of her dress glistening in their envious eyes. The sun highlighted the seven pointed star, symbolic of the old Gods, was lain across the windows.

Religion had played little part in her life, Esso harboured so many religions that she could not say which she favoured nor which she'd choose; _The Lord of Light, The Lion of Night; The Many-Faced God, The Merling King, The Moon-Pale Maiden; _There were too many, and the fact that so many gods existed within the hearts of people, had a way of affirming her belief that there was no true God at all. In her mind, religion was merely a deception, to encourage the destitute to endure the hardship inflicted by their superiors, in order to be reward with glory by their gods in the afterlife. _It's merely a ploy_, she'd resolved at an early age, a ploy to embolden false harmony.

The woman who'd raised her; Roseney Cosalario, had once worshipped the seven, but after her birth and their retreat to Salazay her mother seemed to dispel all that she had once deemed holy. Ezralaya had not been brought up with religion, and saw no need to embrace one now. She drew nourishment from the world around her, and felt not the need to adopt some divine concept to cleanse the condition of her soul.

The boy King sat no more than one-hundred feet away from her, perched uncomfortably upon the Iron Throne. It was a grotesque thing, the very symbol of defiance. A boy sat upon a throne made of a thousand sharpened blades was not doubt unintended, and also unsettling. It was not built for a child – A 13 year old was not meant to be impaled upon the Kingdoms behest.

He was a fair boy, blonde of hair and soft of face. His face was marginally portly, but he would surely grow into himself as time passed.

To the left of the boy King sat a women, with long golden hair, twirled into two loose twists either side of her neck tumbling down to her waist, whilst an assortment of spiral plaits entwined the hair at the back of her head, adding depth and dimeson alongside her central parting. She wore a deep jade gown, over-laid by a pattern of velvet green damask, the gown crossed over her body, as was fastened to her left side with a golden broach. The gown hung low off her shoulders, exposing her lean upper body and the acute curve of her neck adjoining into her shoulder. Black silk lay beneath her gown, which matched the interiors of her extensive bell sleeves, in which swirls of gold outlined the edges, matching the outer seams across the topmost edge of her gown. A long golden pendant hung around her neck, and occupied the empty space of her chest.

As regal and as beautiful as she was to the overt eye, a dark imposing impiety emitted off her rigid posture. _Queen Cersei, _Ezralaya realised. She looked like stone, hard of face with sharp cheek bones and a chiselled jaw to match. The sour countenance upon her face did not cease nor lessen the closer Ezralaya progressed. Her lip was slightly curled, like she was being forced to repress a lionly snarl. _I wonder, if she smiled would her face crack and crumble into dust. _

The Queen's eyes burned blisters into her skin as she beheld her image, analysing and dissecting every visible aspect of Ezralaya's being. Her head did not move once, only her censorious eyes which narrowed in scrutiny, which affirmed her perceptible condemnation, which was blatant to anyone with eyes. She gave nothing a way, as her veil of ice kept her face hard and emotionless, except the whole throne room knew, as well as Ezralaya herself, that Queen Cersei did not approve of her presence.

Around the King, stood men adorned in the white cloak of the kings guard. Garbed in golden armour, with exquisite chainmail, and finely crafted shoulder plates, as well as robust breastplates fastened to their torso. Each was equipped with a sword conceal within a sheath, yet the hilt glisten of auburn gold none the less. Supposedly, they were the finest knights of all the seven kingdoms, the bravest and the boldest, yet all Ezralaya saw were overprized body-guards; men dressed up pompous costumes. Looking the part, with noble intentions yet notable lack of deliverance; though her predeterminations were based upon the telling's of others.

One guard in particular shined brighter than the others; like a block of golden bullion oppressed within a brick wall. His armour harmonised with flawlessly with the golden glint within his hair, completed with a long tarnished gold hauberk, with mother-of-pearl scales chased with gold. He was stood higher up on the dais, closest to the King. He looked like a knight – a _true _knight; with an air of gallantry imbuing his demeanour. Like a knight from the sweet tales; charming in looks and chivalrous in deed. Or so she hoped – his golden hand plucked at her prudence, yet she could not extract the necessary knowledge to affirm his identity, nor could she ponder too long over the appellation of the golden knight as she was quickly approaching the Iron Throne.

A few other nobles and peers stood close to the Throne, faces of people that she had never seen before, nor could attach names to from stories she'd heard. However they must has been somewhat important to be stood so distinguishably and in such close proximity to the King's honour. A young woman, with long, light brown hair, sat toward the left sign of the king, with a clad of scarlet Ladies stood around her. She assumed the comely damsel was the realms future Queen; _Margery Tyrell_, was the name that arose to thought.

Ezralaya arrived before the fair-headed King, she swooped down low into an elegant curtsey, her body arched as her back curved, her arms swaying out as her head bowed low in sincere respect.

"Your Grace." Her voice was airy yet preserved an intriguing vibrancy. She kept her gaze low and forefended.

"You may rise." The child spoke, in tones of simplicity. Her eyes flicked up first, followed by her unfurling body, rising upright. Her hands joined together, held low across her body. She smiled sweetly once their eyes connected from where he sat copious steps above her.

Evidently her captivating beam has winded him of words. For the boy had flushed pink, and a bashful grin was pulling at his lips, desperate to be worn upon his face. Though his mother's sharp glare of fierce stalactites ceased the Kings blushes, and a sheepish mien replaced his fleeting delight.

He took up his piece once again, though his eyes no longer lay in line with hers. "I, King Tommen, of House Baratheon and Lannister, welcome you and your companions, on behalf of the Seven Kingdoms, to Westeros, and to Kings Landing." The poor child had clearly been forced to memorize the words off by heart, she could practically see his mind ticking away with every uttered word. "We have long-awaited your presence here at the Red Keep, and in honour of your arrival, a small feast shall be thrown in your honour this nightfall" _Heavens, they must truly want my devotion – or my gold. _

"We trust that you may attend the wedding breakfast on the morrow, and subsequently the wedding on the succeeding day." King or not, she pitied him, he looked to inapt; the Throne too big and engulfing, his crown to heavy and large for the circumference of his head, acting as a continual burden upon his neck, as though he was gradually but surly caving into himself. "In the meantime we have bestowed suitably apartments unto you and your companions, for however long you may stay." His slight, uneasy smile signalled that his discourse had concluded, as well as subtle nod from his mother who had clearly been monitoring every word of his oration.

"I thank you sincerely, for your kindness and for the warm welcome we have received. The honour of standing before your Grace has made my journey all the more worthy, and to be invited to a royal wedding is the upmost honour, one that I can never repay" _There are ways, _she all but heard resound within the thoughts of every Lannister and ally in the vicinity. "However I shall do my upmost to recompense, in that you shall always know you have a friend in Volantis." She wished the King no evil, but she felt a tautness in her tidings of thanks. The words she spoke aloud came from a vacant place within her affection; empty words of artificial gratitude – empty – but necessary.

"With your Grace's permission, after the royal wedding, my Ladies and I would like to visit the impoverished and deprived people of this great city and be given the chance to ease their hardship, as was our original ambition." She smiled kindly, "Also, I am having some Ceryneian-fruits shipped over from my Island of Salazay for the poor, the fruits are both nutritious and easily preserved, and so I hope that your docks may welcome my trading ships."

The boy had no answer for he has no more retentions left. Thus, he was incapable of assenting. He glanced coyly, but noticeably to his mother who had the definitive verdict. Barley, and begrudgingly, she nodded. After all, she could not deny charity to the poor before such a vast audience. She looked down on Ezralaya like she was a bug, a dangerous bug, who must be squashed promptly.

"Of course." The King spoke assertively, as though the decision had been solely his. Nonetheless Ezralaya beamed gratefully. "Your kindness is as unfailing as we had heard. The Kindest." _The kindest there ever was._ The boy seemed rather proud that he had spoken of his own accord.

"I aim only to serve." once again, she shone her endearing smile.

_The Kindest there ever was, _was the way she hoped she'd be remembered in the history books._ The Richest woman in the known world, The Princess of the Volantis, The Saviour of the Free Cities, _were simply the names she had acclaimed from her rise from the ashes. She hoped the people of King's Landing would accept her for what she had become, and recognise by the names she preferred, and outwardly they seemed willing to accept her. All except one. Queen Cersei. It was as though Cersei was able to penetrate her non-existent façade. Cersei's eye bore down unto her, right down to her core and scorned her with the true tales of the sordid foundations of her making. The Queen effectively reconstructed the figurative skin that she had tirelessly tried to shed.

Ezralaya knew that Cersei saw the girl that she had spent her life running from, the name and deeds that would haunt her for all the days to come; _the whore of the realm_.

A/N - Thanks for reading - A Jaime chapter coming up - Please Review! X


	2. The Brittle Thread of Harmony

**A/N: **SO so sorry this took so long to post, this weeks been so busy and I've just had no time to finish the last little bit. Anyway, its here now. I am letting this one out a little rough, I'll go over with fresh eyes if necessary, I just wanted to get it out.  
>I'm partway through the next chapter so hopefully that'll be up within a few days.<p>

Till then I hope you enjoy!  
>Also, a huge thank you to everyone who favouritefollowed/reviewed/messaged me. It means so so much and comes as a huge encouragement.

Jaime 

At his sister's behest, the small council congregated within the chamber adjacent to the Throne Room. No longer was the Tower of the Hand the heart of conspiracies and ruses. Those required had sullenly attended. Hary's Swift, Cersei's newly appointed Hand, sat at the head of the table, yet the prominent position made him no less timid and cowed. His hands rested upon the table, with his fingers entwined into a nest, compressing tightly every once in a while whenever apprehension seized him. The meek man, with a receding hairline, white whispers and a dimple dashed chin contributed little to deliberations, and objected even less. He was obedient and feeble, which was principally the reason why Cersei had assigned him Hand.

Lord Orton Merryweather sat a few seats down, his carroty locks sat messily atop his head, which flopped from side to side whenever he turned his head.  
>Lord Gyles Rosby came next, coughing up his guts in splutters of blood and phlegm. His face was sunken, redden by the exertion of coughing fits. The sockets of his eyes had hollowed and his cheekbones perforated through his sheer flesh, which was the sickly shade of ashen grey.<p>

Aurane Waters diverged from each of the aforementioned. He was a bastard member of House Velaryon as his name suggested. _A __Handsome bastard _Jaime cursed. He reclined idly against upon the straight back chair, with his feet crossed and rested upon the chair opposite. His long silver hair tumbling down past his shoulders, which highlighted his grey-green eyes.

Jaime's uncle, Ser Kevan Lannister stood at far end of the table, his weight bracing down upon the back of the chair. He looked drained, wearied by grief. His green eyes had darkened in recent weeks, and his once blonde hair had acquired numerous grey wisps. Kevan was finally released from the encumbrance of his elder brother's shadow, but the man that had been liberated from the gloom of birth right stood no greater than the man who had served as a dutiful brother. Unfortunately, his uncle would always be remembered by the world as _Tywin Lannister's brother_.

A Master of Whispers still remained amiss since Vary's had performed such a spectacular disappearing act.

Lastly sat Pycelle, his skin withering away underneath brown age spots and grey mattes of sparse hair. Looking gaunt beneath the mass of his maesters robes, whilst the chain encumbered his posture, with the weight bearing down onto the sinewy columns of his neck. The olds man's eyelids had fallen heavy, his jowls drooping southward along with his scant beard that had not regrown the same as it had once hung. With the bellows and bawls that were omitting from his twin, Jaime was amazed that the old man could tune out her shrieks in search of sleep. If he was honest he envied Pycelle, how he wished he could deaf out Cersei's protests and gripes and the never ending commands that spewed out of her mouthless as carelessly as they had been thought through. She was becoming increasingly rash and impulsive, hot-headed and pitiless and she was grating on Jaime's last nerves.

His sister's displeasure was unmissable, she wore upon her face as evidently as her body wore a gown. And when entering the Small Council chamber, Jaime had sensed that the assembly would be tedious and tiresome affair, and of little relevance to him, and so he too had opted for a place at the lengthy table.  
>Cersei paced up and down the tables length, the twists of her golden hair bouncing and jostling against her perfectly rounded breasts every time she took a sharp turn back on herself. Her green gown whipping ferociously around her legs. Her cheekbones stood high and prominent upon her face, her eyes glistened like spherical emeralds. <em>She's as<em> _beautiful as she is impetuous, _he thought,_ everyday she is harder to love and even harder to respect.  
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She continued to stride tirelessly, her fingers warped into stiffly coiled talons, clawing against her bosom. "…You invited that harlot to the Red Keep? That glorified whore? How could you let my son – your King! – Stand before that slut!" a guttural ire resonated within her roars of anger. There was a passion within her angry, a hearty rage that caused her to falter with her words; so incensed that her grievances could not resonate into volume quick enough. Every other person had swiftly resolved to allow the Queen to speak her piece and to unleash her anticipated outburst upon them all. Jaime, like the others, sat silently, the fingers of his good hand tapping softly upon the table, whilst he chewed at his bottom lip, to silence any potential demurrals.

"Draped in gold or not, she is a whore. She is renowned as the whore of the realm you utter braggarts!" she spat, her arms lashing around her body wildly. "A sheer mockery! She is a whore" she bellowed. Jaime winced, both in reaction to the shrill of her voice and for his own discomfiture at her expense. "The best in the world – is that not how she proclaimed herself? So that men would flock to her bed and slip between her legs?" deep enraged furrows had formed horizontally across her brow. "The richest woman in the world she may be – but she's a foul little whore – I saw it myself. She is dirty and soiled. I want her out – and her clad of golden whores – I want them all out of my castle, out of my court, out of Westeros – out, out, out!" her wrath had turned to a peculiar shade of hysteria. A silence followed, her body replenishing the air she had forsaken in the expense of fury.

"Are you quite finished?" their Uncle spoke. His posture straightened rigidly and the whole room roused along with him, even Pycelle. Her brow tightened once again, but Ser Kevan paid no heed. "You knew of the arrangements weeks ago, when the raven was sent out. You gave your assent"

"I have changed my mind." She retorted bluntly, throwing her hands onto her hips.

"It's too late for that" he countered just as swift. "We need her."

"Don't be absurd." She spat. "We don't need her." she elongated the word _need _as though she was trying to extol her own superiority.

"Yes we do." Her uncle re-joined frankly. "We are in debt to the Iron Bank"

"The Iron bank can wait." Cersei's tone had grown taut, her teeth clenched in displeasure.

"_The Iron Bank will have its due" _Aurane quipped lightly, twizzling a strand of hair around his slender finger. Kevan quickly bypassed his needless remark, before his niece could undo the silver-haired bastard boy.

"She has incalculable gold and ships and supporters. The people of the Free Cities adore her, if she is on our side, then so shall they be."

"My father would never have stooped so low as to invite her to Court." _You forget sister, our father was far fonder of whores than what we'd ever thought. _The confrontation was becoming quite the spectacle, Jaime was for once glad he had attended.

"Your father is dead – and a legacy of severe debts remain." His patience was slipping away shown by his newly enforced stringent tone, sounding from the supressed raucous depths of his diaphragm. Though, his voices timbre softened again once hearing himself; "The girl is harmless – she's a child if anything. It is widely known that since acquiring her fortune she has relinquished her days off….." he could not find the appropriate word and the more his absence of mind prolonged, the more his faltered.

"Whoring?" Jaime offered up.

"Yes – Thank you Lord Commander." He was not thankful –_Whoring _was not his desired word, and Jaime knowingly had filled it in anyway. None the less, he flashed his uncle a cynical smile. "As I was saying the girl has ceased her days of such antics, her vast income now derives from trade and acreage. And has resolved to help the destitute with the fortune she warrants daily. That is undoubtedly commendable."

"She still owns brothels, 15 isn't it? And her fortune is built upon sleazy foundations – we don't need such corrupt gold"

"There is no crime in owning brothels…" Cersei cut him short.

"Uncle are you petitioning for the girl? Or just subtly telling us that you wish to go to a brothel?" His uncle's eyes narrowed. Jaime noted how Lord Merryweather went to speak, but quickly lost his nerve.

"No – I am saying we need gold, to pay off our debts and to fund a war that _you_ started" _you _was spoken with an embedded trace of malice. Cersei did not wither not flinch, only her eyebrow raised in a goading way. U_nwise words. _His poor uncle was getting nowhere, merely spiralling himself around in circles and was quickly realising that he had tied himself up in a knot, a knot which Cersei had the power to tighten, after all she was still regent. _God help us all. _Ser Kevan gulped soundlessly, his affronts had been carelessly elected. "Lord Swyft, maybe you could help to sway Her Grace?" The milkey mild man shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Cersei's eyes flicked to him as quickly as a fly fleeing from a swat. The man visibly waned.

"Urmm – well – as you Grace knows….. The Kingdom is fragile and…" his words faded out with a stutter. Jaime found the stammering fool difficult to listen to. _He's an embarrassment. _His twin evidently thought the same as her eyes rolled in utter disbelief and a grunt of disgust exploded from her throat.

Ser Kevan spoke again, his hand respectfully gesturing to Gyles Rosby, "Lord Rosby you are Master of coin and lord treasurer, why not enlighten her Grace as to the crown's financial state" The moment Lord Rosby went to speak, his body was consumed by an attack of frightful coughing. His chest rattled as though dust and sand filled his lungs, sputtering everywhere, until he could retrieve a cloth in which a large spew of blood dripped onto the white fabric. Jaime did not flinch for blood nor gore – how could he? He was the Kingslayer – except something about the old man coughing up chunks of his insides flipped Jaime's stomach. He looked away in what would have appeared to be a respectful act, but was actually repugnance.

"Aurane?" Kevan gesticulated for him to share his piece. "Speak your thoughts"

"I think…." He spoke idly, like he lived half inside a dream. "I think she is a beautiful woman – she is the most beautiful woman in the world don't they say?"

"Surely that much was palpable?" Jaime interjected, knowing it would rile his sister's blood with jealously. And he was not disappointed, for she shot him a look that would have crippled any lesser man. He too had observed the foreigner's beauty as she'd glided down to stand before the throne. And it was evident why men had paid for the heavens to spend one night with her. Every man and woman in the whole Hall had noticed. The women had scorned her in envy and the men had flailed yearningly – in the flesh she was an entity of the divinities.

Aurane indolently proceeded; "Isn't it true what they say, she is a gift given by the God's?" Cersei inhaled a sharp intake of air through her nose, whilst her teeth snagged down into the soft cushion of her cheek to remain silent. Her final remnants of composure were slowly slipping since she was having to withstand the talk of another woman's beauty.

Pycelle finally interpolated, he had been unusually quiet throughout. "Some say she is a cruel trick played by the Gods to lure all men into temptation and ensue corruption." The maester was tritely going to slander the girl seen as he was falling from Cersei's favour day by day.

Aurane re-joined blithely; "All I know is I'd live as a pauper for the rest of days if it meant I could fuck her once." Jaime could not help but chortle at the boy's lack of wit. Cersei was not amused, neither was his Uncle. Lord Merryweather looked as though he had lost the will to live.

Ser Kevan finally spoke up "Enough" an acute rasp severed the word curtly. "She is called the Saviour of the Free cities by the people. She is the closest thing to royalty for them, not to mention she is Westerosi born. She lives in the people's hearts and will be remembered in the songs and in the tales generations shall tell of her kindness. We would be fools to turn her away, and we shall not." His fist thumped down onto the table half-heartedly. "I leave this city within the week for Darry and I wish to leave it in good stead. The girl will attend the royal wedding, she shall have apartments in Maegor's Holdfast, and whatever else she may need. You will all attend the feast in her honour tonight." Everyone marginally nodded, except the only person Ser Kevan required an answer from was his niece. He looked directly at Cersei, though she did not yield.

"You don't have to like her, you must just do your part as Regent. For the love of the gods Cersei….." his words faded out as lethargy remerged, however she offered no vicious riposte. _A triumph over Cersei, _Jaime reflected, _what a rarity_.His brusque oration had earnt him a final victory, as he had fortunately prevailed.

"We should take the matter day, by day – don't you agree your Grace?" Pycelle croaked, looking favourably to an unresponsive Cersei as he did so. _What a weasel.  
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"All of you – get out." She spat. No one moved. Is she bluffing? Their eyes questioned - _No, no you halfwits_ – _my sister does not bluff._ "Get – out!" she hollered with a hiss. The men frolicked within their own bodies, halting and fretting as they failed to gain leverage and momentum on their journey upward. Aurane waters was the exception who departed the room with a dauntless saunter.

The elder men left the room, moments later, some quicker than others. Gyles Rosby and Pycelle were the last to leave. Rosby's fitful coughs could still be heard even when he'd left sight.

Jaime made a show of standing up as if to leave, knowing he'd only be told by his sister to remain, much like his uncle who was heading out of the door.

"Not you two" she scoffed contemptuously. Jaime sat back down, and Ser Kevan rotated back on his heal, returning to the place he had once stood. His shoulders were once again hung low, his fleeting fighter spirit had perished within his bones, and all that remained was a wearied man, grieving for his brother. _I did not fire the arrow, _Jaime constantly chanted to himself internally whenever a blinding bout remorse seized him

"Uncle, do you think it right to reprimand me before my council?" her voice was soft and gentle, though an underlying venom tainted her saccharine coated words.

"Forgive me your Grace, I meant no offence." He was sincere in his tenor, yet Cersei was not interested in sincerity – only grovelling repentance. Though he said no more. _Hold your ground uncle _he willed_._ Cersei sat down opposite Jaime, her posture alleviating slightly as she took the weight off her feet.

"Shall you be attaining the revelry all in the name of the Whore of the Realm?" She spoke to Jaime, in an accusatory tone, denouncing him before he'd even offered up an answer.

"My presence has been requested, I believe I am obligated." He answered candidly, yet as always his sister found an ambiguity in which she used to twist and contort his words against him.

"Well you are also obligated to attend the Small Council meetings and yet to pick and choose when you wish to do that?" Jaime offered no answer apart from uplifting his shoulders in a disinterested shrug. Cersei's eyes rolled around in a full circle. "Why is there never any wine?" she craped peevishly, looking frenetically around the chamber as though she may imminently die of thirst.

"Perhaps, dear sister, because you've drunken every flagon in the Red Keep" he jested, purposely spoken to madden her – to provoke her, because he could. His uncle warned him all the while about toying with his sister's temperament but he just couldn't resist, watching her redden and burn in fury brought him almost as much pleasure as watching her writhe and wither beneath him, with her legs spread astride of his thrusting body. _Though _t_hings have changed, _hereminded himself. _Whispers cherish truths. _

"Ah –Haha – ahaha." She forced a sardonic laugh out of her windpipe. Her mouth bubbled out fits of fake laughter whilst her eyes remained deadened by scorn. "Uncle, we must laugh at my dear brother" Ser Kevan looked hesitant. "Witticism is all he has now he's a cripple." Cersei always turned spiteful when the world was not adhering to her wants. The joke had grown tedious, to him, to everyone. He sighed a tiresome sigh.

"We undergo enough strife with the rest of the Kingdom, and you two bickering will not aid our cause." Cersei rolled her eyes like the petulant child she once had been, and in many ways still was.

"When are you leaving again?" Cersei questioned irksomely, her forehead stretched taut and her eyebrows raised high in partial inquisitiveness.

"The day after the Kings wedding." He replied reverently, with his hands held behind his back. Cersei looked moderately pacified by his answer, but at the same time her eyebrow quirked in a way that exhibited displeasure.

"I had hoped that eventually you'd come to see where your true priorities and obligations lie. Obviously not. You've forsaken us all. You disappoint me Uncle."

He spoke sombrely, with direct and lucid words. He was a man of impeccable integrity and Jaime admired that. "You know my terms Cersei." Her lip curled in antipathy. All at one, like a passing gust of wind, she flung up into motion, and swiftly submitted her uncle into a thrall of intense proximity.

"Who do you think you are to ask that of me?" The lack of volume to her voice made her seem all the more vicious, as a malevolent hiss embodied her true sentiments. "You are nothing." She snarled into his ear. "A coward." She supplemented. "Not even a shadow of my father." Kevan winced at her final affront, as though a pinch of salt had been sprinkled onto a freshly cut wound.

His uncle was an honourable man, and Jaime could no longer bear to witness him be trampled upon by Cersei's indignation. "Enough Cersei" her eyes bore down onto him like piercing daggers, but he did not flinch. Jaime was far too accustomed to her wayward behaviour and unpredictable comportment to recoil at a mere grimace. "There is no need, if our Uncle wishes to leave then he shall go with our blessing."

Cersei crowed in artificial laughter; "Do you realise that you've both lost all that ever made you worthy of a Kings Court." she looked to their uncle; "You – your brother." Her eyes switched down to Jaime's still sitting form. "And you – your hand." She took a step back and swirled around on the ball of her foot, her arms flailing about everywhere, as a spell of hysteria detained her. "No one in the whole of the Red Keep is worthy of their position – the only man ever worthy enough to serve a King was my father!" her fingers pressed deftly into her temples. "And that vile little monster you forced me to call brother murdered him! – and now inane men like Hary's Swyft reside on my council"

"You chose Harys Swyft!" Jaime exclaimed, pushing himself up into a stance. "There are plenty better men than him, and yet you chose him, of your own will!" he had to fight the urge to point at her with the sharp censuring point of his finger.

"Because all others are Tyrell's" Cersei refuted blaringly. "They have sunk their sordid fingers deep enough into our son – they will rip him to pieces if we are not careful!"

"Our Son?" Ser Kevan perceived incredulously, his brows arching charily.

"King" Jaime amended promptly. "She meant our King." Cersei made no effort to recant, as the notion of the Tyrell's and her son's upcoming wedding had only added timber onto her inner blazing inflageration.

"And you are leaving him Uncle! Leaving him at peril – believe me, thorns like blades lay beneath the roses of High Garden" Her fingers had once against become clawed and curled, her posture had hunched in on itself, like she was shielding herself from even the utterance of their name. Jaime glanced over to his uncle, who was rubbing his face into his hands, his fingertips digging in to the grooves of his eyes, trying to rouse himself into caring about the inconsequential nonsense that Cersei had a way of tailoring every confrontation to. _It always comes back to the Tyrells and Tommen's Bride – Yet Stannis is in the North, the Iron Born are closing in, and a Targaryen girl lays across the water with three emergent dragons and an army of unsullied, surly sweet sister, you can see that bigger evils lay before us that the minimal threat of Tyrell men.  
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Kevan sighed a deep sigh, looking futilely to Jaime. Trying to sway Cersei's inert mentality was like trying to catch the moon and all the nights' stars within the swoop of a net. _Impossible._ Cersei had always been obstinate, resolute and dictatorial, and he had once venerated her wilfulness and all other indomitable qualities, but now, not only was Cersei obstinate, resolute and dictatorial, she was also an utter fool, coalesced with a hint of lunacy. _The queenly role she has had to perform has distorted her charm _Jaime reflected forlornly. _There was a time when she knew how to laugh, once she had the most beautiful smile in all of the Seven Kingdoms.  
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Kevan took a steady breath, and once again took up his piece; "Your Grace, if I believed the King was in danger I would not dare leave his side."

Cersei cut him short with a sharp bite_; _"Words Uncle. Just words."

"I can say no more." Kevan answered simply.

"And once again you come too short." She sighed pitifully. "I am surrounded by idiots. I'm half tempted to dissolve the small council altogether." Her magnification of a contemptibly narrow outlook notably troubled their uncle, for his chest puffed up and the look of horror coated his face. Jaime alternately had interrupted his sister's words figuratively, he remained hopeful that even she would be able to see the utter inanity in dispersing the small council, and the disarray that would supersede.

"By every fibre of my being, I beg your Grace, do not do such a thing."

"If you had taken the place of Hand, you may have had more of a say in the matter, and a whole lot more power to intercede." Kevan's face remained rigid. "Oh fear not Uncle, I was being facetious" she cawed a single spasm of laughter. _Her humour is as dry as the sands shores of Dorne.  
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She sauntered over to the door, her deep green skirts swaying around her legs, the glistening material snaking smoothly across the ground. Before she took her leave, she turned back to them once more.

The sun shone into the room, and picked up the glided strands of her interlaced hair. Her hands were held high up against her body, the silky material of her sleeves had receded back in glossy ripples, bearing her forearm, whilst the material effortlessly flowed down her body. Undoubtedly, she had a presence that could dominate a room.

"I shall offer my pleasantries to your Whore once and once only. Henceforth after this night, she shall be a mere passing silhouette to me; just like everyone else." With that, she pirouetted gracefully and headed out of the door. Her guards followed behind her, as they paraded off into the distance.

The air around him once again felt fresh, and cleansing, no longer was his sister's animosity polluting it. He took a deep breath, satisfying his lungs. He too, was about to make his way out, until he saw his uncles head bowed forward with his arms bracing his weight on the back of the end straight back chair.

"It's not too late for you too Jaime." He spoke faintly, pushing his body upright.

"What do you mean?" Jaime queried.

"You too can…..escape this folly." Jaime grunted throatily, with the same groan he had sounded out a thousand times before.

"How many times Uncle…." His refute faded out in apathy "My place is in the King's guard." He declared resolutely. _I am the Lord Commander. _Did all those around him truly believe that his selection was only a fleeting phase that would one day pass? Was he really still only just the cruel ploy of the Mad King's doings to spite his father?

"You are your father's heir Jaime. You know it's what he'd want." Jaime shook his head silently. _My father always got what he wanted, must he get his way is death as he did in life? _The thought of Tywin Lannister commanding the world with an army of undead from beyond the grave was a harrowing contemplation, complete with the image of rotting flesh dripping off skeletal faces whilst abiding in blind obedience. The concept of his father ruling in tyranny beyond the grave made Jaime shiver. _He's dead, _Jaime retold himself, as a cursory paroxysm of contrition clenched at his heart. _I killed him. Even if it was not by my hand. Damn you.  
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_"_And what about what I want?" Jaime asserted, "I don't want the West and I don't want the Rock." He fortified with restrained vigour. "Besides, Cersei gave them both away. Damion Lannister retains Casterly Rock and that other Lannister is Warden of the West"

"Damion and Daven Lannister, are merely acting in your absence. Damion is only castellan. No one would ever dare deny you Casterly Rock. It's in your blood, your childhood home, it's your birth right."

"I am of the Kings Guard!" Jaime's tone hit a stringent pitch. His left hand wrapped around the hilt of his longsword, but he felt not power. His grip was weak and his arm was not and he doubted ever would be, in complete congruence with the blade. "Cersei is the Lady of Casterly rock." Jaime continued after a moment of pursuing composure.

"When there is a will there is a way. Nothing is set in stone – What is done can be overturned. If you decide to renounce you place on the Kings Guard and take your place in the Westerlands on top of the Rock, then no one would deny you. Not even Damion or Devan Lannister." His uncle spoke pensively, his eyes tailored in entreaty, imploring him in earnest.

Jaime shook his head silently, his eyes closing slowly. They reopened after a moment of profundity; "Honour is hard to find and easy to lose. I finally have a chance to salvage my honour, and relinquishing my place in the King's guard shall do me no favours" _The Rock should have gone to Tyrion. He had the mind for governing the West. _"I can't Uncle." He sighed bleakly, and to a degree, regretfully.

"If you do ever change your mind, then don't let too long have passed. I know I said nothing is set in stone, but over time things solidify. The West will eventually come to feel like home to your Lannister cousins, and when that happens, they will be much more reluctant to yield their endowments. Don't be imprudent Jaime. Glory can be attained elsewhere." And with that he turned and walked away.

Jaime was left alone in the small council chamber. Silence emerged around him and he was thankful for it. When he was a young boy, he could not bear the sound of silence, nor to sit in a motionless room. He had a zest in his blood that need to be exerted. He would throw himself into the thrall of pandemonium in order to feel the rush of vivacity engulf him. But now, in his _old age _Jaime Lannister could appreciate the silence, even if only for an instant, for moments of peace were scarcely come by when residing in Kings Landing with a war waging on, only dwindling leagues away.

For the remainder of the afternoon, Jaime busied himself in the White Sword Tower. He summoned the members of the Kings Guard to discuss the final arrangements for the protection of King Tommen upon his impending wedding. They sat around the circular table in the round room, whilst Jaime distributed commands and placements for the day. He was meticulous and precise in his mandates to his associates, Cersei had been especially persistent in asserting her desire for there to be upped defence around her son. Which he partially understood, after all her eldest son had been murdered before her very eyes. Nevertheless, poison was a lot harder to detain than some common assassin, desperate for a martyrs death. Boros Blount was, to his dismay, made Tommen's food taster for his wedding day, which Jaime took a sinister delight when ordering.

He dismissed them to their onuses once his charges were dispersed, sending Osmund Kettleblack down to the undercroft of the tower, to polish the arms and armour ready for the wedding. Loras Tyrell lingered behind a little longer than necessary. Jaime humoured the boy for a while, whilst he flicked through the pages of the White Book. Jaime tested the boys on his knowledge of those who had authenticated as worthy and recited the stories of those that the Knight of Flowers could not recall or had never known. The boy was particularly interested in the life and endeavours of Barristan the Bold. Jaime told the tales that he could remember. _The finest man that ever lived. _It irked Jaime to this very day that Ser Barristan did not think him worthy of the Kings Guard, believing his honour was scanted and he cloak eternally stained by the blood of the Mad King. _I saved them all _Jaime thought bitterly.

It was these sentiments of over seethed resentment that had him dispatching Loras Tyrell back to his duties. The tales of the Legends within the White Book were all very heroic, but unless these acts could be imitated in the present day then Jaime found them of very little use. When he was younger and two handed, Jaime marvelled at the Tales of the great knights and even the telling's of those who'd soiled their reputation beyond reprieve, such as the treasons of Terrence Toyne and the deceits of Lucamore the Lusty, but now they were merely words to him. The stories of dead men. He had become all the more cynical about it since losing his fundamental aptitude, and coming to the realisation that he would never be able to fill as many pages as Ser Barristan Selmy so long as he lived. And even if he did, the memory of King Aery's would forever serve as a blot of ink, eclipsing all other outstanding braveries. His chances of literary glory were significantly minimised.

Later on he inspected the Barack's of the Gold cloaks, it was not his prescribed duty but he saw it as necessary. Upon his check he came across the Commander and childhood friend; Ser Addam Marbrand. He had wondered whether the copper-haired Knight had taken his check-up as an insult, but if had he did not show it. He offered Jaime common courtesy befitting to his title and Jaime did the same in return. Fortunately, Jaime had no complaints. All was up to acceptable quality as far as his eyes could tell; all ringmail was oiled and treated, boots and armour shined, and spear blades were whetted and filed down thinly and sharply. Ser Addam Marbrand seemed relieved that he had pleased Jaime and he walked away with a gratified lift in his stride, his cloak swishing softly behind him, embroidered with the burning tree of the Marbrands.

He returned to the White Sword Tower a little while later, and headed up to his apartments on the topmost floor. His squire, Colton, a distant Lannister cousin, had left upon the table a plate with an assortment of mellowed cheese, biscuits and buttered bread, with a pot of plump raisins, accompanied by a pitcher full of wine. He sat down for a while, and picked at the food before him.

He then worked his way through the books and reports about the service of the Kings Guard, the task made much more difficult and prolonged in the fact that he had still not mastered the ability to write with his left hand.

By the time he had finished, the sun was diming and the sky was aligning into a veil of dusk. Just as he closed the book, Colton knocked on the door requesting entry, his arms laden with Jaime's nightly attire. Jaime bade him admission, and let the boy remove his armour. The boy was painfully shy, and had not yet grasped the art of conversation. No more than the odd civility or request ever passed between them and Jaime preferred it that way. The boy was obedient and submissive, a good squire all in all, and did not pry into Jaime's business. Colton unfasted each golden clasp, and removed Jaime's amour piece by piece. Once his body was uncovered and unprotected, Colten collected the brandishes of affluent metal and took it away whilst Jaime dressed himself at ease. He wore a long-sleeved jerkin of fawn, with adornments of golden studs, ornamented in vertical stripes. Accompanied with matching cream breeches, and black leather boots. The young squire returned a few moments later, and attached Jaime's golden hand onto his pitiful stump, and then appended his white cloak to his shoulders so that it draped down his back, affixed by two golden clasps of decorative metalwork.

The boy spoke up; "Shall My Lord require anything else?"

"No Colt, That'll be all. Though in the morning bring with you a basin of hot water, I should like to Wash."

"Yes, very good my Lord." The young lad bowed gracelessly and then scurried away out of the door.

Jaime wrapped the sheath of his is long sword around his waist, he was still not habituated with the feel of his sword dangling at his left side. It felt wrong, and unnatural, going against every single one of his defence techniques that were embedded within his Inherency. He was a knight that could not fight. _Perhaps they'll make a song of my misfortune. _

By the time Jaime arrived at the Small Hall of Maegor's Holdfast, the musicians were already plucking at strings and thrumming at music boxes, the singer, a white-haired lily-livered fellow was warbling out a rather offbeat rendition of _The Maids that Bloom in spring, _which blended nicely into_ The Moon that Glitters. _Jaime wandered on through, taking a cup of wine from a server and drank the liquid down in one swift gulp. Feeling its fruit tang prickly at his taste buds, and thaw the narrow cylinder of his throat, proceeding to fill his chest with a delightful warmth.

The moderately sized hall was already brimming over in capacity, some were sat dining, others were already up and dancing.

"Ser Jaime" A voice spoke. Jaime turned and saw the ever portly Mace Tyrell approaching him. _The fat flower himself.  
><em>

"My Lord" Jaime responded relatively amicably.  
>"I take it all the preparations for defence are in order for my daughter's wedding?"<p>

"The _King's_ wedding, shall be heavily guarded and monitored. You have my assurance" His disparage was heavily concealed by charismatic poise.

"Well that's good to hear." He chuckled lightly and his pudgy belly jiggling up and down. "It would be awfully caustic if there were ever a repeat."

"Indeed." Jaime could not find the source of the humour that had tickled him so. "It would be terribly unbecoming of your daughter if she were to be widowed a _third _time before her eighteen name day – men may think her cursed."  
>His senseless titters ceased at the mention of his dear daughters repute. "Well" His cleared his throat in a sharp grunt "it's comforting to know that no such outcome shall occur."<p>

"Certainly." Jaime concurred. "If you'll excuse me my Lord."

"Of course" Jaime had already started walking away before The Lord of High Garden had even begun his emittance.

Jaime headed into the throng of carousing people, recognising familiar faces, and offering polite nods to those he saw that he moderately liked, including Paxter Redwyne and Addam Marbrand, who were stood together, toasting their wine too good health and prosperity.

It was only when Jaime looked beyond eye level that he saw his _sweet _sister. She was stood upon the upper circle of the hall which looked down onto the gallivanting people. She was already looking at him, observing his whereabouts with a cup of wine held tightly in her grasp. He looked back up at her in an adoring way that bordered on mockery. Her eyes narrowed in condemnation, but she summoned him with a flick of her finger anyway.

Jaime navigated his way through the revelling people in order to reach the back stairs that led up to the upper gallery. He found his sister where his eyes had previously left her; stood grimacing down upon all of her jovial subjects; scorn had a hideous way of marring her exquisite complexion.

"Your Grace" he spoke, ever so formerly. He noted how his twin had morphed back into a condition of mourning, a state of which she slipped in and out of by her choosing. Dressed in a desolate gown, with a subtle pattern of black stitching around the neckline and outer bell sleeves, she looked the very picture of a daughter in the midst of mourn. "How sombre you look." He quipped, thought she did not rise to the bait, for her eyes were fixated down on the lower ground. Jaime followed the direction of her eyes, trying to work out what had captivated her attentions in such an intent way. He found his answer; stood elegantly along the far side of the hall, was the girl that had Cersei's blood a boil. Jaime could feel the hatred radiating off her, made fierier by her darkened clothing, whilst her glare of over-seethed revulsion bore down upon her the girl's unsuspecting demeanour.

"She's just a girl Cersei" Jaime enforced wearily, leading forward to rest upon the bannister, as she was.

"Look at her." she sneered, swigging down the last few drops of her wine, allowing it to swill around her mouth. "Dressed like the whore she is." Jaime looked back down. She was stood laughing with Margery Tyrell, and two of the future Queen's Ladies. Margery seemed to be in awe of her, engrossed by the tale she was so melodically telling. Jaime eyes trailed further down her slender body to observe the cause of his sister's embittered grievances.

The girl was donned in the shade of deep mauve, her gown however was not like anything he'd ever seen before. It was made up of two parts, a skirt and a bandeau top that sat snugly upon her upper body, the two separate pieces were joined by numerous diamond adorned chains that appended the top section unto the bottom. The chains were fine, and so her abdomen beneath was revealed to the world, in consecutive revelations of bear skin. The decorative delicate chains were continue from the top, up to her shoulders and a neck collar in a vast array of white diamonds, which smothered her upper chest. Half of her hair was interweaved into delicate plaits in order to form the basis for a silver headpiece, of which was a large creation of silver work metal work complimented by drooping teardrop diamonds and semi-precious stones. The rest of her gilded hair cascaded down to the small of her back, in soft ripples of molten gold. Her choice of fashion was rather peculiar and daring to his Westerosi eyes, and to all others, especially to the women whose southern styles had been overwhelming outshone. However, he did not think she had overstepped the boundaries of promiscuity,and therefore failed to share his sister's contempt._  
><em>

"She's from another place." He spoke, defending the integrity of the beauty across the room. "They dress differently across the water."

Cersei turned to him with eyes that accused him of idiocy; "Jaime, people from Volantis do not dress like that. _Whores _dress like that." She exclaimed reproachfully.

Jaime looked back down to her, as she listened fixedly to Margery talk. _It's probably their amity toward one another that irks her so – not her gown. _

"Well she's doing not harm." Jaime countered, standing up straight. Cersei followed him up like they were attached.

"Of course she is." She ridiculed, "She's making it seem acceptable for all young girls to think that it's ok to dress up like sluts – we are idealising a whore." _Jealously suits you as well as a rash sweet sister. _It then clicked within his mind how his sisters drab gown had made her appear all the more modest, and the girl all the more lewd.

He wondered how high he could elevate her jealously to soar; "She's rather….. Glorious though, wouldn't you agree?" She glared at him with narrowed eyes, but yet she seemed too absentminded by _the foreign whore _to retaliate. "Have you offered your pleasantries?" he questioned, taunting her further with a patronising tone.  
>"I have." She proclaimed matter-of-factly, smug leer tugging at her lips. "I was a radiant Queen, with smiles and sweet words of nothingness."<p>

"I wish you could be that all the while – life for us all would be so much more pleasant." her hand jerked as if to swat him, but her fist clenched instead.

"You're testing me." Her face had hardened, so that all that moved was her mouth. He shrugged impishly. Taunting and bedding her were two of the things he enjoyed the most. _Though the latter has been a long-time scarce. It's grief _he told himself.

"Where's the King?" Jaime asked, realising he had not seen the blonde haired boy, nor was he conjoined to Margery Tyrell side, pining up at her adoringly.

"In bed." Cersei answered.

"Bed?" Jaime echoed quizzically. "Is he ill?"

"No." She answered blithely.

"Then why is he in bed?" Jaime countered sharpishly, turning to catechise her. "Uncle said he was to be here."

"Uncle's words are empty." She retorted spitefully. _Our decline of Hand has troubled her more than I ever thought. _

"This is a matter of politics" he griped. "You know that."

"I know what's best for my son!" she maintained, treading closer thus forcing him into a state of close propinquity, to appraise his wandering eyes.

"He is a King. Not some infant who needs to be mollycoddled, bathed and put to bed."

"I don't want him down here, whilst that girl…" her arm struck out with a finger aimed mercilessly. "….cavorts about with sordid pride."

"He's thirteen years old." Jaime responded darkly, dumfounded by his sister's ignorance. An alliance was needed between her and the King, and the King's notable absence was not helping the Kingdom's cause.

"A child." She insisted through compressed teeth.

"Well I remember what we were doing a thirteen." Her unceasing frown altered within the blink of an eye from a well-defined glower, into a venomous contortion; of which her lips were snarled and her eyes tapered in fury.

Her voice was dark and grave, with rasps of menaces; "As always you go too far brother." Jaime did not accede, his whole exterior remained impassive. She did not frighten him. "And one day you may go too far."

"And then?" he tested, as the heat between them started to cultivate. Though she quickly pried herself free of the feverish ardour, in which her chest had been stained by a hatch of provocation, and took sundry steps back.

"And then…." A pout pursed her lips in a cunning aspect. "And then I shall be brother-less." She smiled in a smile that was so curled by immorality it was utterly sinisterly, she took a few more steps back, and then swirled around, sauntering away from him.

After a few moments of solitary contemplation, Jaime headed back down onto the main floor. He was encompassed the feeling of irritation that Cersei had roused within him. She had a way of crawling up under his skin and in turn flaying him from the inside out. She could be so beautifully evil and benignly cruel all at one. He despised her yet loved her simultaneously. She was a fatal obsession to harbour – like poison that was utterly sweet to the taste, but was in fact killing little by little him in the most blissful of deaths. Yet the captivity the she held over his obdurate heart, no longer seemed so oppressive, nor as compelling. _My love for her flutters like silk in a breeze.  
><em>

He progressed on forward, manoeuvring through the revelling guests who were high on life and fortune. The Hall had an odd vivacity that Jaime had not seen for a long time, as hitherto the Kingdoms had been submerged under a shroud of desolation induced by war, slaughter and endless bloodshed. The world had been darkened, and tainted by the conflict of mankind. Every passing day had been one of strain and discord, a continuous strife of power starved minds of which the Stranger always lurked nearby. He wished he could share their optimism and partake careless laughter, however he knew of the complex on-goings of the Kingdom, and the delicate friction that was continuously being tested. And he also knew that his sister lacked the necessary forbearance and patience to preserve supremacy, and he did not doubt that it would once again be her who'd snap the brittle thread of harmony.

Halfway through his gait, he came to a conscious decision to return to his rooms and sleep the night away. The rowdy fallaciousness laughter irked him and the gallivanting world that spiralled around him made him dizzy._ It's all a spectacle you mornons, _he chided, _it's_ _not even for your benefit, nor even for the whores– it's the Lannister's who shall prosper.  
><em>

_They think the worst is over, so they laugh and laugh but their hearts shall burst if they do not acquire foresight – you'll not be laughing when the Targaryen girls' Dragons fry you in your sleep _he thought darkly_.  
><em>

He knew the feast was merely a stratagem to ensure allegiance from _the girl across the water, the whore of the realm, the most beautiful, whatever they call her, _But all others had seemingly taken it as an opportunity to rejoice to nonentity_;_ _the fruits of armistice are not yet ripe but still people indulge themselves voraciously as though they cannot taste the sour flavour of jeopardy. _Whether it was the raucous courtiers, the burden of the truth, Cersei's malice, or a combination of them all, he no longer felt pliable.

And so, with an abrupt halt and a swift rotation, he faced the opposite direction. However as he turned, his shoulder bumped into another passer.

"Oh forgive me my Lord." The voice spoke endearingly. He turned to look at the voices origins.

The sight he saw widened his eyes and supressed all words. His tongue felt locked and wordless. Stood before him was _the girl, the whore, the beauty, _who'd triggered waves upon waves of controversy and had riled the faintest of hearts. The one who'd maddened his sister, who'd captured the Kingdom's intrigue, and the one who possessed the cure to the disease of warfare.

It was principally her eyes that made him mute, for they were utterly entrancing; like pale blue sapphires, with sparks of emeralds and bursts of jade, defined by a colour that he couldn't quite comprehend. Her hair looked like silk, and he longed to reached forward and thread his fingers through the glossy strands. He could see the precise details of ever placed diamond within her headpiece, as well as the immaculate stitching upon her gown and the intricate chains that were fastened by tiny silvered swirls. He took note of her unblemished skin of which the Essoi sun had bronzed with its brilliance. _It's true what they say, she is breath taking. How can she even be real? _He questioned internally, _maybe Pycelle is right, maybe she is a cruel trick played by the Gods, for she no doubt has the proficiencies to corrupt a man. _

Once realising the prolonged silence between then, he morphed back into himself, quickly finding his voice and urging his slacked jaw to form his thoughts.  
>"Nonsense My Lady." He spoke lightly. "The fault was mine." he acknowledged, remembering his hasty doings in an attempt to be relieved of false conducts. His words made her smile, a smile so radiant it made her whole presence become aglow, <em>maybe she is the reason the room<em> _glimmerings_. She even laughed lightly, whilst her eyes flicked up and down, glancing over the extent of him. Though a new, yet distinct part of himself caught her eyes, and proceeded to winded them in fascination, in a similar way to how he had gaped at her.

She glanced back up, alive with charming fascination. "I am no Lady" she beamed, though her smiles were quickly eclipsed by qualities of recognition

"You're the Kingslayer!" she gasped softly in wonder, looking at him all the more intently. She seemed overwrought with curiosity, her plush bottom lip pulled in-between her teeth as she eyed unashamedly at his golden hand.

He hesitated. "Urm – Yes." He answered uncomfortably. _That damable name. _The world would never forget. He'd been called it for so long that the name no longer bothered him as it once had. When the deed had newly been done and he was still in the grasp of ignorance, a sly jest of the name to his face would convert him into a force of sheer rage that no one would reckon with. He beat a man bloody once for shaming him with the name before his peers, from then on most men would utter the name behind his back. Yet nonetheless the notion that even those across the sea distinguished him by such a derogative title vexed him. _Until I die, and thereafter, _he supposed.

Her eyes realigned with his, lustrous and enraptured. "In the Throne Room earlier, I saw you and I could not recall your name, and all of a sudden it just came upon me." _That's not my name,_ he felt like bellowing,_ my name is Jaime. _He smiled, though somewhat awkwardly.

"Take it as a compliment" she advised, continuing; "There are many men in this room, and many names that float around in my head, and yet yours was one of the only few I could affix." Again she smiled so charmingly his chest pulsated. _She meant no offence, _he realised.

"Well I thank you then." He replied, his head lowering respectfully.

"Besides…." she continued, "The gold hand and white cloak are very befitting to you." _Is she mocking me? _Again he winced. "A compliment my Lord." She asserted.

"Do you not like compliments? For you have squirmed at every one I have offered."

_I am unaccustomed to them. _"Kind words and praises are a rarity here at King Landing. Hard to come by." Again she smiled, seemingly relieved that she had not offended him.

He wondered how old she was, for she had the light-heartedness of a child with an aura of unviable innocence, and yet the appearance and figure of a flowering woman, with pert breasts and a narrow waist. His uncle had called her a _child, _he had been referring to her as _the girl _and Cersei had deemed as _the whore _that all the world recognised; yet all of them names seemed unbefitting to her appearance. She seemed far too exquisite and womanly to be any of those things. _The most beautiful woman in the world _he recalled Aurane Waters entitling her and that seemed to be the only appropriate description.

"That means I must say all the more to make up for this cities unkindness."

"That maybe more difficult than said. This city is full of snakes and schemes. If you hold your nose up to the air and take a deep breath in you may even smell the duplicity" as he had spoken, her head lifted up slightly into the air, and she drew in a sharp inhale. "Anything?" he spoke with a wavered laugh within his voice.  
>"Nothing yet." She answered with an easy smile, and an arching eyebrow.<p>

"The air in the Small Hall is too adulterated by the scent of spiced wine, perfumed potpourri and the fragrance of rose water upon the Ladies – it veils the deceit nicely with demureness" he spoke rationally. He was an experienced man of Court, he matured within the walls and been exposed to the treasons of those before him. Treachery was like an infectious disease, which infested itself within the moralist of beings. It was irrepressible, and no one went untouched of betrayal.

"Even so. I have been shown nothing but kindness since I arrived. Everyone has been so welcoming, even the Queen I suppose. I have been well treated, and well looked after, as well being given wonderful chambers for my duration." She spoke practically, holding her hands together. "I have come to this place with an open heart. I have no desire to believe idle speculations against the people of King's Landing. I shall take them as I find them."

"That is very intrepid." He expressed with intended caution.

"Maybe so, though I am no fool. I shall make my judgements and opinions as and when I come to find them."

"And yet you called me Kingslayer?" he reminded incredulously, curious to see how she would receive a censure.

"Forgive me if my words offended. Yours is a notorious name attached to a very famous deed. It was not intended to seem unkind, but nonetheless it was done in poor taste." She was overly contrite, but it made her all the more engaging, especially as she once again smiled softly, in the hope of redeeming approval.

He offered her a similar smile of concord. "I'll make you a covenant" she began, capturing his curiosities; "if you can look beyond my past _indiscretions_, I shall do you that same courtesy."

It was an interesting proposition, unlike any proposal that had been posed to him before. There was a heartfelt naivety within it, an endearing sense of simplicity. To look past another's evils and ignore mortal sins seemed far too unrealistic, as a person was defined by the severity of their iniquities. Even so, her offer had seemed far too atypical to pass up.

"Very well." He agreed. Jaime had not viewed her in the same perspective as Cersei. All he saw was what was stood before him; an unfathomable, beautiful being, not the _whore _that the world had quickly proclaimed her. _We all do things out of desperation. _"You have yourself a deal."

She smiled heartily, as though the slate of her sins was visibly being cleansed before her eyes.

"Ezra" she spoke, holding out her hand to him as a gesture of new beginnings.

He smiled lightly, it all seemed so wonderfully ingenuous. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Cersei prowling around the hall, like a dark rain cloud set to ruin a sunny day. She was watching him, and _her, _with eyes of abhorrence. _She looks so bitter, and yet this moment tastes so very sweet.  
><em>

He resumed his attentions wholly unto her; "Jaime." He spoke simply, reaching for her hand, and lowering forward to place a chaste kiss upon her knuckle.

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><p><em>Let me know of your thoughts! Thanks again :)<em>


	3. Triumphs and Sorrows

**A/N **– Once again, I'm sorry I've taken so long to post, this week has just been crazy busy. I'm usually a perfectionist but I wanted to get this chapter out, so there probably a few spelling/grammar errors that I've made which I promise to go back and amend.  
>There's quite a lot of back story in this chapter, though I feel it's necessary for further character development. However within the next 2-3 this story will be upped to a mature rating, so I apologize to the readers who do not like that sort of reading.<br>Anyway, thank you again for the support. Reviews are always dearly appreciated. To get above twenty views would really spur me on!

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><p><span>Ezralaya<span>

…_..flashes of purples swirl up in bursts of colour, as explosions of auburn flames blaze through fractions of the nights black sky. The stream of burning air ignites the world in blasts of orange and red, whilst tendrils of leaden smoke swirl up into silver flickers in the illusion of the moons artificial light. The ground beneath cracks and trembles, splitting the stone in two. Building tumble down into rubble and mountains of stone form. Just as the smoulder becomes engulfing, a loud thunderous roar echoes throughout the world that no longer is…_

"_Ezra wake up." _A voice spoke softly. "The morning is here." Ezralaya's eyes blinked open and the light of the day scorched her cobalt irises.

"Has it truly come so soon?" Ezralaya sighed drowsily, sinking back down into her cocoon of warmth, comprised of crimson satin sheets and topped by a coverlet of sable fur.

"It has." Theodora responded dreamily. "Boeenna shall here within the minute no doubt." Despite her own prudent words, she too took no heed and descended back down beneath the lavish bedding, pulling up the covers up high around her chin.

Ezralaya forced herself into a state of consciousness, prying open her eyes and rousing her mind into a condition of vigilance. After a few blinks the thick blurry haze before her vision began to recede and clarity ensued. However, along with the emergence of lucidity, also came the penance for her excessive wine consumption which arrived in the form of a dull, yet persistence ache, centring itself at the crux of her temples. Her fingers reached up and massaged the throb in soothing circles.

"Did you have a good night?" Ezralaya asked, memories of the night passing through her rattling brain in tender flickers.

"I did indeed." Theodora grinned brightly, squirming excitedly down into the feathered mattress.

"Would your squeals of delight be anything to do with a certain young Tyrell squire?" Ezralaya teased, with an arched, omniscient eyebrow. Confirmed by the flush of glee that tinged her cheeks. Again, she shrieked in delight, pulling her knees up to her chest, and wrapping her arms around herself, dragging the covers with her like an animated little girl. Ezralaya couldn't help but laugh.

"Maybe." Theodora beamed, obscuring her smiles within the dunes of the eiderdown.

Theodora was like a sister to Ezralaya, well, the closest thing to a sister she would ever attain. Their life's triumphs and sorrows had united them as one, making their bond more potent than blood.

Their friendship had originated within the slums of Volantis. Ezra; two and ten, and Theodora; four and ten, had passed by chance one starry night. They both shared the common denominators of starvation and vagrancy. Neither had a home and neither had a hope of deliverance. That night, they'd slept side by side in the gutter of a chandlery, entwined together for consolation. In the morning, they'd broke a roll of stale bread together, and from then on never left each other's side. They found solace in one another, a comfort, and a love that either had scarcely known. Theodora did not know of her own origins, she'd never known a mother nor a father, however from somewhere she had acquired a surname; O'Raya. All she had ever known in life up to and after meeting Ezralaya was misery, pain and the quickest ways to bring a man to completion.

Like Ezralaya, Theodora was a runaway whore at their moment of encounter down a back alley, swathed within the obscurity of night. Both were dressed in tattered rags, barefooted with dirtied faces, shattered nails and matted hair, they were almost the mirror image of one another, all expect the fact that Theodora stood a few inches taller and had dark chestnut locks, compared to Ezralaya's golden threads. Though in them days her hair was flaxen with grime and filth, knotted and tousled into tightly clustered lugs.

A friendship had been initiated almost instantly; together they travelled around Volantis, sharing tales and offering vital companionship. In the beginnings of their acquaintance, they had both tried desperately to find reverent work, to sequentially lead a reputable life together. Although, no matter how far they ventured out the city, or how deeply they scoured the central conurbation, no matter how much they begged for work – there were no vacancies. Their lack of employment meant lack of money, and over their days of idleness they had become increasingly desperate. In the end, after doing all they could to abscond from the path, they had no choice but to revert back to all they knew. Clients were always in abundance.

Their prowl would begin as soon as they'd opened their eyes and the sun had taken prominence. From morn till dusk they sought out _custom. _However the men tended to be more pliable at night, as though the daylight showed them their own shame, whereas the darkness obscured their deeds within a shroud of a shadow. Ezralaya and Theodora tended to look for men travelling in pairs, and then each take one down two abutting alleys. They each took turns to pleasure the most unsightly one out of the two.

One day a week they'd trek down to The Harbour, where the traders and merchants would dock their great ships upon the wharf. Ezralaya and Theodora, took to the wooden palliated berth, and maneuverered around its maze, offering their services to any one aboard the ships. The Merchants tended to be the most generous of all, especially those who'd completed the long voyage from Quath. Sometimes the men would even offer the girls food and wine, and if they were extra fortunate, a cabin for the night.

It was a foul, degrading life, which they both abhorred. But it paid well, and ensured their bellies were kept full.

The fact they had one another made it somewhat easier, as they were both in it together, meaning that the desire to survive was made all the more imperative. They had each other – a reason to keep on living.

It caused Ezralaya a peculiar notion of nostalgia whenever she reminisced on the early days of their friendship. For even though their union had commenced during the darkest days of her life, she could not help but look back on them with an odd fondness. For although they had cried in misery, and wept in agony, there had been times were they'd laughed and smiled.

One memory in particular always made her heart swell – though it was founded upon a horrific incident – the kindness of another had been able to rekindle their spirits. Theodora had taken a severe beating from a client, after she had refused him a certain _act_, she had sobbed and wept both in humiliation and pain. The man had blackened both her eyes and shattered two molars at the back of her mouth, which fell out over time in rotten shards and splinters.

Ezralaya had held her tightly and comforted her as much as possible, though it came at no avail. It wasn't until old man came to the sound of her cries and took pity on them, that the chance of reprieve looked attainable. He invited them into his home and fed them, bathed them, and gave them a bed for the night. As well as treating Theodora's cuts and bathing her swollen eyes.

In the morning he had sent them off with warm wishes and a crate of strawberries which they took down to the harbour and engorged themselves on the sweet seedy fruits, before the scene of the morning's sun rising into prominence. Their mouths and tongues were stained red for many passing moons and it was that thought that made Ezralaya tingle with warmth. The kind old man had given her newfound hope that kindness still existed, and that comprehension had made the world a place that she still wanted to be a part of. Ezralaya was sure that the old man had saved Theodora's life, for if he had not come as their saviour, she would have lost all hope, and in turn lost the will to live.

Ezralaya loved Theodora like no other, for she was the only one who understood the emotional turmoil that came with all they had endured. They had witnessed the same horrific sights and suffered the same hell of selling their bodies to the highest bidder. Within four years they had gone from bathing with vermin, to soaring beyond the heavens, encompassed by the stars.

It had been Ezralaya, who'd had wits and intelligence to amass a fortune, and Theodora had been content to trail along and offer her services whilst Ezralaya obtained the worldly glory. Though the glory she attained, was riddled with disgrace. For glory meant fame, and fame meant adjudication from the rest of the wider world. Her exploits had spread like wildfire across Volantis, and then dispersed further across the Western Kingdoms. _The best in the world _she'd declared herself in the art of fornication, and the men of Volantis had been foolish enough to believe her. _They played into my palm and practically handed me the riches of the world. _

"Did the boy have his wicked way?" Ezralaya taunted with a playful nudge.

"Of course not!" Theodora replied, amusedly aghast. From the day that their bodies had once again become their own, they had vowed to go without touch of man for as long as they may willingly choose, in order to salvage whatever scraps and fragments of their virtue may remain. For them, their chance of prosperity had almost been a new beginning, in which they could atone for their sins, and put the world to rights.

Although their shared vow of chastity had not been sworn to last a life time, Ezralaya often wondered if she'd ever trust a man enough to let him between her legs again. Years of abuse and exploitation and left her somewhat benumbed below the waist. No desire pulsed, no arousal throbbed; her femenity was devoid of sensation, and she was, for the moment, thankful for it. For the thought of a man penetrating her made internally retch with revulsion and faint with fear. Yet she was still only young and fortunately still enjoyed the company of men, but for the time being abstinence suited her.

"Besides you're one to talk…" her finger poked up beyond the bedding and waggled accusatorily at her.

"Why?" she questioned with a mystified guise.

"I saw you…" she tantalised mischievously. "Talking to the _Kingslayer_." She spoke his name in a drolled voice of sinister evil, how one may narrate a monsters voice to a child's within a bedtime tale.

"Yes him, amongst many others." Ezralaya answered pragmatically, pushing herself up the bed, and propping herself against the plush, duck feathered pillows. Theodora followed her up, though she braced her posture upon her elbow.

"Well from an outsider's perspective, your company was very concentrated and went very undispersed throughout the night." Theodora glared at Ezralaya as though she wanted her to confess some lusty secret or offer up some reminiscent tale of debauchery, though Ezralaya had nothing so worthy to profess.

"He was very pleasant." Ezralaya responded frankly, sitting herself up fully.

"He's the Kingslayer!" Theodora protested with a laugh.

"We should not judge." Ezralaya spoke shrewdly, hoping to ensue acceptance within her friend.

"Everyone in that Hall spent the whole night judging us!" Theodora exclaimed in a dramatic declaration, her arms flailing about recklessly. "I heard them." she griped sullenly.

"With good reason." Ezralaya reasoned fairly. She knew the transition would not be easy for anyone, acceptance was a hard thing to come by with their lingering past, though she had been pleasantly surprised with the reception that they had received. All had been courteous and polite throughout the night, especially Ser Jaime, and the Lady Margery; who'd welcomed her like a long lost friend. Yet despite the benevolent words and sweet compliments that had been said to her face, behind her back she's overheard cruel slurs and slanders being uttered at their detriment. People could be ever so cruel and have no realisation of their malice.

Ezralaya had endured so much verbal abuse in her life that she was able to shrug off cruel jape as easily as shrugging off a shawl, but as fierce and as mighty as Theodora was, words still had a way of crippling her. She have never been able to construct the necessary hard skin to act as a blockade against all maligns. She cared about what people thought in a way that Ezralaya had purposefully denied her; after all she was _the whore of the realm _and Theodora could not have suffered that entitlement. Despite her hesitations, Theodora had been only one of two who had encouraged Ezralaya to accept the King summons, all others were afraid of those who resided there. Theodora craved for opulent adventures and feared nothing, save for words.

"I heard no less than what I expected. People have been far crueller – we shouldn't complain, I mean look at the rooms they have given us!" Ezralaya affirmed, oddly trying to defend those who had scorned her, swaying her hand out to the glorious room around then.

"They only want your gold. You know that." Theodora countered in protest, pushing herself up into a sitting position. The thin woven strap of her bleached nightgown, draped slackly down her shoulder. Her long dark hair trickled down her dark complexion back in russet coils, the hair on the crown of her head slightly mussed and tussled into finer unruly fibres from where she had lain upon it.

Argo had often said that Theodora's walnut skin showed that she possessed heritage borne of the Summer Isles, coalesced with traits of the Myrish. Though she'd spurned his suppositions away, maintaining that she was the unwanted product of some Volantian bar-maid and a randy punter; which was the tale that she had been weaved from an early age. She couldn't remember when or what age she had been sold to her to a whore-master, nor who'd sold her, though she often overtly wagered, in tones of disdain, that it had been her mother who'd sold her in a life of prostitution _and all for a few coppers. _

"Of course I know that." Ezralaya groaned meekly.

"And that's why they are so nice to you. I haven't got any gold, so they can affront me all they want until they feel better about themselves." Ezralaya knew that Theodora's words were not directed at her, yet nonetheless they weren't pleasant to hear.

"Mockery was sneered behind my back also. I witnessed reviling looks being glared at me." Ezralaya fortified; _a Kings Palace is no place for foul whores _was a one in particular that she was sure had been spoken with every intention of her hearing. When she had turned to look for the whisperers, she'd seen two younger girls stood conspicuously by the pillars, their hair had been entwined in the southern style, with an array of plaits interweaved atop their head, _The Queen Ladies _she'd quickly realised.

"You saw how the Queen looked at me when we arrived." She supplemented, utilising her latter thoughts. "Besides that squire was undoubtedly rapt in your charms."

"We all know what he was thinking, how he was hoping the night would end." Her fingers subconsciously traced the circumference of the single tear mark that was tattooed beneath her right eye, at the hands of a heartless whoremaster.

The symbol decreed to all those who knew that she was a prostitute of Volantis. Her defacement had occurred earlier than she could remember and therefore her memories of the ordeal were swathed in black. And yet every now and then she would shudder with the phantom feeling of a needle puncturing her cheek.

Mercifully, the blight upon her cheek had faded over time, and so all that remained was a faint raised line, in which her long fridge and sandy powder helped to conceal further. Ezralaya had been fortunate to not have been marred by any of her three _employers, _more like abductors, who'd made her false promises about a better life to encourage her once naïve self to sign her life away.

"I thought you liked him?" Ezralaya questioned after of few moments of perceptual reflection, sighting that Theodora had done very well to talk herself out of her own happiness.

"I did, but now in the light of day I have seen my stupidity." Again, she sighed hollowly. "I could remain abstinent all my life and yet even in death I'll always be remember as a whore." She satirized scathingly; "Like it was ever my choice." Her belated couplet plucked at Ezra's heart strings and a tune of self-pity began to play. Ezralaya sighed along with her friend, in a ballad of onerous breathing.

"As will I." Ezra affirmed hopelessly, her epithet was pretty much branded upon her forehead, the inscription cut deep into her skin, much like Theodora's mark of shame. "We have nothing to prove to anyone." Theodora sighed, unresolved. "I don't understand why you are so disheartened. The feast was wonderful. The food, the wine, the company were all wonderful. Don't let a few spiteful people spoil your time here. We need to enjoy every moment!"

Ezralaya reached forward to hold Theodora's hand, she squeezed softly. "Who'd have thought six years ago, you and I would ever be guest with in a King's castle." Theodora immediately recognized her own cynicism, and flopped dejectedly onto the bed.

"I'm sorry." She began, guiding Ezralaya's hand to her mouth in order to place a single rueful kiss upon her thumb. "The squire boy…." She faulted regretfully; "he was so lovely, and sweet and gentle and yet…." Again she sighed dolefully, "Still I feel as though he disdained me."

"Nonsense!" Ezralaya stated boldly, "I saw the way that fair-headed boy looked at you." Ezralaya tittered, tickling her neck with her free hand, watching a smile merge upon here face once again, followed by a giggle.

"And I saw the way Jaime Lannister looked at you" She prodded at her chest with a blunted poke. Ezralaya felt her brow crease in perplexity; "Don't be silly." she scoffed, an odd tingling sensation crawled over her skin as the notion took root.

"I'm not!" Theodora insisted, with a playful whine. Ezralaya shook her head doubtingly, her eyes tapered by scepticism. "I saw how he gazed at you when he thought you weren't looking." Ezralaya laughed out loud at the concept. Theodora was no liar, and never had been, she was merely being deceived by her mind's speculating eye.

"I think you've been misled by your imagination. Yes we talked, and he was very pleasant. Nothing more." This time it was Theodora's turn to shake her head.  
>"And what did you speak of?" she asked, dubiously, still adhering rigidly to her creeds.<p>

"Nothing personal – nothing I wouldn't say to anyone else." Her mind delved deep into the chamber of her memories from the evening prior. "I spoke nothing of us – then again our tales are too sad to tell at such a joyous occasion." Their conversing almost felt like a dream, she could recall the images, but the recollections were retained in silence. "It's hard to remember – I think he told me of his childhood and so maybe I spoke of Salazay."

"So you'd laughed so heartily at the mere mention of Westerlands?" Ezra's eyes narrowed, _he was amusing_, Theodora was being staunch in her views, and Ezralaya did not feel like contending with her resolution so early in the morning.

She and Jaime had shared no more than pleasantries, and the odd anecdote from times past, there has been nothing improper nor had anything insinuatingly lecherous passed between them. And Theodora was wrong to speculate otherwise. Jaime had not looked at her in any sort of way, he'd been attentive to her words as she had been to his.

"Anyway I'm glad that you don't share the same fondness. He's bad news and many years older than you. You know what the trade merchants of Saltpans said about him." She continued to cogitate with drifting eyes, accusing the man of things that no one knew to be true.

"All of which I'm sure are foul lies to besmirch his name." Theodora shrugged unconvinced, but offered no witty retort.

"Well at least the Kingslayer is fairer than his sister, that much is certified." Ezralaya's lips pursed at the memories of the Queens false show of civilities toward her during the feast. Her words had been so fallaciously sweet, that they were positively saccharine to swallow. "What a sourpuss." Theodora jeered.

Ezralaya instantly reached forward and placed a finger to her mouth, pushing urgently into the soft cushions of her lips. "Shhhh." She hushed. "Remember, the walls have ears." Her tone was subdued and airy, but satiated with vigilance. "You must be careful what words you speak." She moved her finger away and Theodora nodded obediently.

Theodora had a way with words, in that she found it very difficult to hold her tongue to prevent her from speaking things that she shouldn't. It was her natural talkative nature that continued to prevent Ezralaya from revealing her most profound secret of all. She often felt guilty that she kept such a secret from the person she trusted the most in the world. But Theodora was prone to blabbering, and the imperils of a fortuitous blunder being uttered through loose lips was far too treacherous, as the repercussions were far too grave. Only five people to have lived had ever known the truth; Ezralaya herself, her natal mother and father, the woman who'd raised her; Roseney Cosalario. And the woman who'd assumed the frequently vacant position of a mothering figure; Boeenna Vetusesapienes.

Boeenna, of the Braavosian Coastline was the oldest and most astute of all her Ladies. In her forties, Boeenna was more than two decades older than Ezralaya and her other Ladies, which was primarily the reason that she had adopted the role of being a maternal dignitary to them all. Ezralaya and Theodora had befriended the downtrodden Boeenna who had resided within in the Hawkoryn district of Volantis; an influential area of those that had possessed money but just not enough in capacity to be deemed wealthy. Theodora and Ezralaya often snuck into such dwellings as the men there tended be a lot more generous when paying for their services. Boeenna and her husband had owned a bakery, which sold soft wholemeal loves and honeyed rolls.

Boeenna had kindly given the girls a basket of bread which had gone stale and passed its best, however her husband had caught her and beat her bloody before their very eyes for doing so. Both girls were powerless, they didn't have the strength to fight him off, nor the wits to help. They knew if they screamed for help no one would come, no one cared, and even if they did a husband was allowed to beat his wife and so no wrong-doings would be seen. Instead the girls had shamefully run away, with their basket of bread in tow. The whole night neither had slept for they were both wracked with guilt and shame; _we left her; _was all Ezralaya could hear within her mind; _we left her for dead _a lasting echo would chant.

On the succeeding morning the two girls had gone back, only to see a crippled Boeenna with a mottled face of black and blue marble. The memory still made her heart clench. They had seen her husband leave and then deemed it safe to approach. When they entered Boeenna had not borne any hatred toward them, but still they apologized refutably. _Come with us _they'd urged, _we live a miserable life but surely it's better than enduring that? _No matter how long they pleaded and how earnestly they begged, Boeenna remained absolute. Over the following weeks, anytime the girls came near the bakery, they had entered only to see new cuts and bruises marring her face, from a split lip, to a great gash across her cheek. They implored her to come with them, but she maintained and spouted out the same old mantra; _he loves me, I know he does, he needs me. _

It was a whole year in passing before Boeenna acquiesced, though only after taking one final almighty beating, and even then her getaway had been executed remorsefully. Though by that time, Ezralaya was already on her way to building an empire, for the girls both had a home, and a parlour to carry out their business. They had somewhere to go and a place of refuge to offer Boeenna. Boeenna had wept for her abusive husband and rallied with her mind that was plagued by guilt. Both Ezralaya and Theodora had expected that she would one day up and leave, returning into her violent husband's domination. Though luckily, in time, Boeenna had settled and began to care for the girls, seeing them as her only chance of motherhood, as years of marriage had proved that she was undoubtedly barren.

Ezralaya had confessed her secret to Boeenna after a particular rough customer had, had his wicked way with her. He'd left her raw between the legs, with a mauled chest of veiny bruises. Usually Ezralaya had dealt with aches, pains and anguishes internally, believing that no one could help her, or save her_. I'm a lost cause to the world._ However the incident had elicited some sort of altercation within her mind set. As though the reality of her life had been pounded into her. And it was that thought that had shattered her mental forte._ Tell me what grieves you child…._The world grieved her, and all of its populaces. _Tell me and I'll fix it _she'd promised in honest belief she could put her broken world back to rights.

Eventually Ezralaya confessed into the comfort to Boeenna's bosom, the burden that had encumbered her heart since the day Roseney Cosalario had passed on. Ezralaya had doubted Boeenna would even believe her, and yet when she had looked into her eyes with the new found knowledge, she'd witnessed the truth for herself.

From then on, Boeenna had treasured her secret as though it was her own. They seldom spoke of it to one another, the jeopardy of being overheard was always too precarious.

It was at the conclusion of Ezralaya's disillusioned contemplations that the door opened, and the woman who'd occupied her thoughts entered the room.

"Are you sleepyheads awake?" Boeenna quipped as she sauntered into the room with Gracengail Dargood, Maxette Moonsky and Alabine Stone trailing behind her.

They were each dressed in gowns of green, designed sleeveless, with a high rising halter neck and overlay of soft gossamer to add dimension. The gown fell loosely down their bodies and was adorned with a belt in the unusual design of a golden serpent which synched in their waists and accentuated their figures. The colours of green varied from shade to shade. Around their necks hung a necklace, each different in appearance though akin as they all possessed the precious stone of an emerald, set within a delicate bed of gold. Their hair was tied up in a series of spiral plaits, coiling around the crest of their heads.

Despite the adversity that was embedded within all of her companions past, they had each fortunately preserved their good looks; from Theodora, an exotic beauty, with eyes so mysterious that they harboured a tale so inexplicable that even she could not purport it, to Gracengail; a slightly plump girl with a heart shaped face and strawberry blonde hair which fell below her shoulders in limp little ringlets. Boeenna diverged from them all with her mature features of a lined brow and pencil lips, however despite her austere facial qualities there was nurturing trait within her bearing.

"We are indeed." Theodora sat up and sprung off the bed. Ezralaya had not yet acquired the vitality to emulate her. Theodora, Maxette, Gracengail, Albany and Boeenna were the five that she had chosen to attend the wedding breakfast with her. She was only permitted to bring two, to the impending wedding ceremony on the following morn; Theodora and Boeenna having obtained that honour, however all of her Ladies had been invited to attend the reception afterward. All of them, save Boeenna were in-between the ages of eleven and twenty three.

The youngest members of her household were the bastard Moonsky twins, Lilia and Laila, who were ten years old. They were sadly the spawned outcomes of a raped woman from the slums of Mantary, their mother had abandoned them in vegetable baskets and sent them down the river. Thankfully that were found two days later by a fish monger and afterward sent to live out their days in the morose surroundings of an orphanage. Ezralaya had freed them one week after their eight name day, after taking a shine their bright blonde curly hair. The girls had earnt their keep working as cleaners and peelers within Ezralaya's first established brothel, now known legendarily as _Thy Fair Lady.  
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"The breakfast begins at 10, so we must dress you quickly. Sweet Theodora, your gown is laid out upon your bed, Lara and Cecily shall help you into your gown and tress your hair."

"Very well." Theodora smiled, and tottered off, her bare feet pattering on the marble floor.

Albany headed over to the window and pulled back the red velvet drapes, allowing the sun to stream through the paned window in sparkling rays, enlightening Albany's hair with a hue of pastel orange.

Gracengail, laid Ezra's gown down neatly onto the lengthy scarlet velvet divan that was central to the room. Maxette placed Ezra's shoes, jewels, and undergarments around the dark green gown, and stood to the side awaiting instruction.

Ezralaya treaded down the three steps and down to the main floor of her apportioned bedchamber. The apartments she had been given were vast and spacious; the ceiling of her boudoir was daubed with a portraiture of golden entwining vines, coordinated with tapestries of crimson which tumbled down onto floors of black marble. A four post bed lay on the back wall facing the immense windows that opened out onto a raised veranda that looked out onto swelling cerulean waves of the Black Water, which crashed against the rocks below in an upsurge of white effervesce. A meshing of crème encircled the bed adorned with pearls and tiny auburn diamonds in the fashion of clovers. Two red divan sat in the centre of the room with a low dark oak table in between, complete with a bronzed bullion bowl overflowing with seasoned fruits and berries, scattered with almonds. The room was decorated with gold shimmering units bedecked with vast looking-glasses and onyx candle sticks of arty formations, topped with towering beeswax candles.

The room rightward of her bedchamber was a wash room; the ground beneath was continuously heated, a stone bath was carved into the ground in an oval shape, with three grey stone steps that led down into the warmth in which steam rose from the surface. The bath was large enough for all her ladies to share at once, which they had done before the past evenings feast.

The room leftward to her bedchamber was a large reception room, though it was more like a small hall. A large black round table was situated toward the upper corner, festooned with straight-back fur upholstered chairs. An array of futons and cushioned chairs were positioned to encircle a fire pit, laden with fireglass, in which flames of blue reached high into the air whenever the glass was aflame. The rooms were lavish and opulent in every way, complete with silver tassels and platinum doors. Even the rooms her Ladies had been assigned were richly ornamented. With two to a room, the soft crème bedding and glistening taupe drapes guaranteed for a comfortable stay.

Ezralaya slipped the straps of her silken night gown off her shoulders, allowing the dress to glide down her body, letting it to pool around her feet, leaving her shamelessly unclothed. Gracengail and Maxette stepped forward, garments at the ready. First went on her unclothes, and then the gown. It was a deep olive green fabrication, of which a plummeting neckline partially split the bodice in two, revealing the soft inner swells of her breasts. The slit started wide, nearing the centre the region of her collar bones, and then narrowed as it descended, joining at her upper midriff. The fabric used was rigid and structured, with prominent shoulder lines and a built in corset, which sculpted the dress to her figure, like rubicund wine unfurling in a decanter.

Thick braids of tightly woven, soft green yarn, with flecks of silver thread, lined the daring slit. Similar bold features of ornamental detail materialised upon the rest of her bodice and around the upper neckline, as well at trailing down the seam of her tightly fitted sleeves. The lower part of the gown, was much simpler, yet around the hemline, lay a similar procession of tessellation as above. The undulating braid skirted the dress of perfectly. From a distance the gown was nothing spectacular, it was only when in close proximity that the detail and opulence of the dress could be seen, and its true exquisiteness appreciated. It was daring, yet modest all at once.

Ezralaya perched upon the divan, whilst Albany and Boeenna set to toil upon her hair.

"Do you still want it as we discussed?" Boeenna asked, running a silver comb gently through the undulations, unsnarling the tight little clusters that had formed throughout the night.

"I do indeed" Ezralaya smiled lovingly up to her. "What are the others doing today?"

Boeenna's voice resounded first; "Lara and Cecily spoke of taking Lilia and Lalia down to go fishing for cockles and trawl for the pearls of oysters within the rock pools of the Black Water. Callahan and Caden are going with them so then shall be safe." Callahan and Caden were two more of Ezralaya's guards. Callahan's past was a tale wrapped in dark deeds, comprised of sinister secrets, compared to Caden's happier bygone days.

"Oh how lovely. I wish I could join them, though the King awaits." She squirmed in glee, the notion that they were residing within a royal palace was still preposterous within her mind. _We've come so far, so far! S_he reflected proudly. _We have risen from the ashes. The ashes of filth, grime and immorality. And now we fly so high;. A phoenix reborn.  
><em>

"Did you all have a pleasant night last night?" she asked after a few moments of introspective rumination.

Albany piped up first; "I did indeed." she beamed, raking her finger softly through Ezralaya's golden locks, and the commenced interweaving one of many plaits. "The food was glorious." She added brightly. She was stood behind, so Ezralaya could not see her face, but just by the buoyant pitch in her voice she knew a smiled rested upon her face.

Gracengail spoke next; "I also." She was sat beside Ezralaya, polishing her nails and adding a ring onto each delegated finger. "Countless people complimented my gown"

"I told you, you looked beautiful." Which she had done individually, to every one of her Ladies. Each time using a distinct praise to make her words all the more personalised. The deep purple of their apparels from the previous night had suited Gracengail's strawberry ringlets idyllically.

She looked down to the floor, where Maxette was crouched fastening her crystal-silver shoes onto her feet. "What about you Maxette, did you have a nice night?" The girl's woeful eyes looked up, accompanied by the cruel scars and despoilments that she had suffered over her life.

Maxette Moonsky may have harboured the most harrowing tale of them all. She had lived a retched life and endured the upmost cruelty of humanity.

A sadistic slaver had cut out her tongue when she was three and ten and then ate it before her for his supper that same day. From then on she'd been forced to live out the rest of her days in a state of muteness and isolation. Furthermore, she carried the Essoi bastard name of Moonsky and a tattoo similar to Theodora's was branded into her right cheeks. Thought unfortunately, the tattooist had not been as forgiving as Theodora's, for Maxette's tattoo was a huge teardrop, which covered nearly the whole expanse of her cheek.

However, at some point in her life she'd taken a sharp implement to the cheek, as the teardrop was severed in half by a long twisty scar that reached from her jaw up to the bridge of her nose, in unsightly contortions of puckered skin. Her left eye drooped slightly after taking one too many hits, and every other tooth was missing within her mouth, though they were scarcely seen as her lips tended to remained allied. Her whole body was an assemblage of cuts, scraps, scars and missing chunks.

Ezralaya had bought her off her Slave Master for an extortionate price only a few months in passing, after witnessing him beating her like some rabid dog. Once purchased and freed, they took her back to Ezralaya's white marble palace and made her a part of their family. Maxette, could neither, talk, write or read, yet she was the most magnificent artists, which was how they'd come to learn about her past. They assumed she was one and twenty as that was the number of pictures she had drawn when depicting her life story, each image more tragic than the last.

Maxette still had functioning ears, and somehow seemed to understand their words no matter what language they spoke to her in, be it the common tongue, or Valayrian. Ezralaya had bought her paints and oils, and presented Maxette with her own room, complete with vacant walls. Maxette had instantly grasped the kind gesture, and had set to work on creating masterpieces, for all their eyes to devour. Soon enough the girls had offered up their own bedroom walls for Maxette to beautify. Maxette was also the main person who designed Ezralaya's gown. She would fathom her thoughts down upon parchment, and then send them off to the tailors and dress makers to being her envisages to life.

Despite all of the tragedy and heartache Maxette had undergone in her condensed life, when she looked up at Ezralaya, the smile she shined portrayed more happiness that what words ever could.

"Good" Ezralaya replied, her smile infectious. "And you Bo? Are you still embittered that we are dining in a King's Palace?" Boeenna had been by far the most steadfast in her unfavourable views of attending the King's palace. _It's an abominable place _she'd proclaimed when the raven had conveyed the Kings invitation, _we'll all be cursed, damned, few leave the Red Keep to tell the tale. _

"The night was pleasant." She answered crisply. Though offered nothing more.

"See?" Ezralaya tried to turn to gloat with her elongated intonation, though her hair was in the midst of being plaited and so it pulled when she attempted to glance of her shoulder.

"It's all a façade." Boeenna declared. "If you strip away the grandeur of their attires and the splendour of their living, beneath the opulence they're mischievous sprites, all hungry for riches and power. I don't trust a single one, they are wicked fiends. And you'd be foolish not to heed Ezra."

"Oh don't be so cynical." A smile emitted from her words. "We're only her for a short time."

"Yes I agree." Boeenna resolved, and yet a staunchness still resonated, as she remained stalwart to her beliefs. "I shall hold my tongue and nose so not compromise all of your time here."

"Hold your nose?" Ezralaya questioned, her expression peculiar.

"Yes, so not to inhale the foul air of depravity." She retorted, collecting the majority of Ezralaya's hair and tying it up into a high thick cascading tress, allowing the thin plaits to curve over the crown of her head. They set to work on braiding the falling stands.

"We have smelled far worse." Ezra quipped.

"No, this is far worse for it is odourless and all the more deceptive." Ezralaya huffed dejectedly, Boeenna of which came forward and crouched by her side. "Child." She spoke softly, and Ezralaya's big blue eyes glanced up. Boeenna's soft, warm hand cupped her cheek tenderly; "I have no desire to spoil your time, for I am prouder than anyone that you have risen so high as to dine in a King's palace. Though I pray you be vigilant in whose company you choose to entertain."

Ezralaya's brow creased; "What do you mean? Whose company?" she queried airily, feeling an odd need to justify herself, but also wanting to remain undeterred by Boeenna's disinclination.

"I saw you…" she spoke lowly in an attempt to be discreet, though her other Ladies were stood so close that even if she had whispered they'd have most likely heard. Ezralaya didn't mind, she had nothing to conceal and kept no secrets from them anyway –Well, apart from her mightiest secret of them all, _though that secret shall accompany me to the grave. Only in death shall I ever be safe. _

Boeenna continued sombrely; "I saw you talking with that Lannister Lord." Ezralaya fought the urge to roll her eyes in derision. _First Theodora, now Boeenna? Was my time truly so consumed by Ser Jaime's cordiality? – No. _she resolved, _I spoke to every single soul within the small hall; from the Baneforts to the Bywaters, from the Tyrells to the Redwyne's. It was not my fault that the majority were so lacklustre compared to the Lord Commander.  
><em>

"So?" Ezralaya questioned, rather sardonically. Her eyes bore hard into Boeenna's, hoping to elucidate an answer.

"So…" her voice was thick with authentic sapience, congealing together into words of wisdom and prudence that could not go discounted. "Be wary child. You may remain undeclared, though the inclinations of those you spend your time with are enough to affirm your allegiance, be it true or not. Have caution, my sweet one, a lion has claws and never hesitates to use them." With that, Boeenna stood back up and proceeded to complete Ezralaya's hair.

A silence passed over whilst Ezralaya ruminated over her words. Was this beautiful city really so dangerous? Boeenna had the nose for latching onto the scents of danger, and was scarcely mistaken. All her life, Ezralaya had believed that Kingdoms of Westeros were the place of dreams, and King's Landing was the heart of all enchantment. It was a place that she'd never thought she'd see given her childhood circumstances, though against all the odds she had made it and she did not want

Boeenna to quash her elation. She was breathing in the air of her ancestors, treading over the threshold's that many an archaic King's had crossed from the times of yore. The legends of the songs had graced the soil and the men of the Andal's had invaded upon the same shores of which she too had travelled. It was a place of ancient wonder, of _her _people and yet Boeenna still seemed fraught to embrace the wonders of Westeros.

Theodora re-entered the room awhile later; prime and prepped, dressed and beautified. By that time, Ezralaya's hair was finished, completed by a large cuff, studded by prominent shimmering diamonds that circled the tie that collected her hair, the rest that tumbled down her back was interwoven into a triple helix. Upon her head lay a pliable headpiece, which draped in accordance to her head shape. It was comprised of numerous silver diamonds, and interlines of silvered metal, and dangling chains. A few of the diamonds trickled down onto her upper forehead.

Just as Ezralaya raised to a stance, Argo entered the room and his azure eyes sparked aglow as he observed her image, accompanied by Monty Bearstone; a burly man, with a thick bristly beard. Monty had some time ago been accused of rape and had been punished accordingly. One night in a tavern, nearing on two years ago to the day, Ezralaya had spoken the same man who was then crippled by destitution. When he'd told her his story, within his eyes she had seen honesty, and the innocence that he'd been wrongly denied. At that time, Ezralaya had a roof over her head and a place to do business, and so she employed him into her service to be a guard at Thy Fair Lady and he in turn dedicated his life to her. Monty Bearstone was her first ever commissioned guard, and he had never left her side since. There was something about his rotund posture, broad chest and balmy eyes that always made Ezralaya feel safe and comforted.

"You look splendid." Boeenna complimented, beholding her exterior, once again placing a cupped palm to her cheek, her eyes glistening with teary pride. "It's like you were born to dine with Kings, dance with Lords, and flirt with knights." Ezralaya could not help but smile. She leant in a placed an affectionate kiss upon her cheek.

"Are we all ready?" she cast her gaze across her five Ladies, each perfectly exquisite and perfectly flawed, arrayed in verdant hues.

"I think so!" Gracengail chirped eagerly.

With Ezralaya foremost; Argo and Monty to her side, her Ladies shadowing behind her, and two more of her guards; Finnlay Harstar and Brenton Smithfield, trailing behind them, they progressed forward. On through the labyrinth of gleaming marble corridors and shimmering passageways, down the shingled corkscrew stair case, across the sandstone courtyard, sprouting with blooms and onward into the Queen's Ballroom.

The intimate hall was already teeming full when they arrived. A withered old man, swathed in roughspun wool approach her. She did not recognise his visage.

"Child." The voice croaked feebly. Ezralaya looked to see a sallow skinned man, hunched with age.

"My Lord." She bobbed down in a brisk curtsy.

"I am no Lord." His voice rasped in hoary tones. "Merely a humble Maester." From the vast extent of the chains that encumbered his neck, with links of platinum, pewter, gold, pale steel, cooper and ones that she couldn't even identify, it was evident that he was far more than just any _humble _Maester_.  
><em>

"Forgive me." she recoiled her folly. Despite the fact that he had been the one to approach her, she could tell that he harboured a reticence. He had no desire to willingly speak with her, thus he was clearly under an obligation or command to do so.

"Unnecessary." He dismissed brusquely. _Am I wasting precious minutes of your definite time? _The Maester did not look at her directly in the eye, _Can you not bear to do so Grand Maester? _His own eyes merely wandered to and fro around the room and she was sure that every now and then that his eyes would take a daring glance down at her breasts, _How profane Maester._ Besides they meandered too quickly to be certain. "The present ceremony is ongoing, we trust that you have bought a gift to bestow up the King, and his future bride." His tone was patronising, as though he was presuming her to have overlooked the imperial tradition.

"Of course I have a bequest to confer." She smiled haughtily, much to the old Maester's displeasure. Evidently he was hoping for idleness to give him an excuse to reprimand her. "I could never be so disrespectful" she added on frankly.

His throat audibly rolled and groused within the painfully gaunt columns of scrawny his neck. "Hm. Yes, yes. Very good." His words were chafed with a wheeze. "You may progress forward." He breathed tiresomely.

"So I shall." Ezralaya smiled brightly, making his grey aura seem all the more morbid. Obeying her words, she headed on forward, her company pursuing, leaving the Grand Maester to his own degenerating company.

The small hall was draped with crimson drapes, and long banquet tables topped with golden tableware. It was odd the shades of red were so prominent and flagrant considering they were in midst of a wedding breakfast between a Tyrell and a Baratheon.

Frontward and central, the King and his young bride sat upon the wide table in eminence under a canopy estate. To the boy King's right sat is mother; the Queen, daubed in a gown of lamentation, Her twin; Ser Jaime and the man she presumed to be their Uncle, sat further along the table. To Margery's left sat her father, and mother, as well as her handsome brother and Grandmother, though she knew none of them well enough to settle upon an instantaneous opinion.  
>Ezralaya stepped forward in prominence, her Ladies fanning out behind her in a charming composition.<p>

She bowed respectfully deep in her stance, her eyes cast low in reverence "Your Grace's." She could intuitively feel the motions of her Ladies and Guards lowering along with her.

"Sweet Ezralaya." Margery chirped delightfully. "How beautiful you look." Ezralaya recomposed herself.

"Thank you my Lady" she acknowledged smilingly "As do you." She complimented, remarking Margery's gown of rich emerald green, with the large golden rose of her house embroidered upon her bodice. She could not see her skirt, as the rich table cloth of velvet crimson concealed all of their lower bodies. King Tommen's face had once again reddened in her presence, Margery exuded happiness, and Ser Jaime offered a kind, reassuring smile at her. Incongruently, the Queen sat, encased by a mantle of icy rime. Unmoving and disdainful. Her expression was the very depiction of internal sentiments warped in condemnation.

"May I present my gift" she queried lightly.

"Of course." King Tommen permitted, his blushes subduing.

Ezralaya glanced over shoulder, authorising Finnlay Harstar to progress forward unto the Royal table. Her gift held securely in the cradle of his arms and placed it steadily before the King's dignity.

He bowed once again and then retreated back to where he had once stood.

Before the King lay a board, concealed by a cover. The whole structure was bedecked utterly with fresh water pearls and oval pallid howlites. Each sitter upon the royal table looked inquisitive and in wonder of what lay beneath the ornate concealment, Loras Tyrell had his neck craned forward in an attempt to attain a better view. King Tommen looked utterly enthralled, as though he could hardly contain the suspense. Even the Queen's brow showed traces of moderate curiosity.

"A game known as Cyvasse, Your Grace" Ezralaya spoke and the boy lifted the lid through conquering intrigue. Thankfully, he did not look disappointed, in fact he looked positively delighted, as did the Lady Margery. "It is very popular in Volantis – a game for two." She supplemented, though the boy King was already too engrossed by the ten different pieces, the elephant had particularly taken his fancy.

Each piece had been carved and sculpted out of opaque beige cut-glass veined with bronze, with the eyes devised of red rubies and any further detail adorned by speckles of platinum.

Cersei's malice crept up on her as soundlessly as a shadow; "A game in which the aim is to kill the King, correct?" her face was stoic and taunt, her words rigid and frosty. Tommen's enthusiasm quickly diminished, as well as the intrigue from the others. Cersei's voice had a way of waning all smiles and mirth.

Ezralaya blenched; "Indeed." She answered repentantly. She hadn't even considered that the game would be considered distasteful or insulting. _The people of Volantis adore it – then again they aren't governed by royalty. _The Queen had made her gift appear almost _treasonous. _Even so, she felt contrite. _  
><em>

"Forgive…" her words were docked short.

Ser Jaime had unwittingly stepped in as her defence; "Though nonetheless, still, _only _a game sweet sister." Still, Cersei humphed with an eye roll and a tight upper lip.

"I think it looks wonderful." A fresh voice spoke. Ezralaya's eyes wandered down the table to find the source. "How innovative." The elderly Lady continued with her signature wimple atop her head. She was Margery's Grandmother, whom she had very briefly spoke to at the feast from the previous night.

"I agree." Ser Jaime fortified, much to his sister's exasperation.

"I have been bored rigid seeing bestowments of cloth, bullion and fealty. As has our youthful King – a perfect gift. You have trumped them all" she exclaimed heartily, striking a flat palm down onto the clothed table.

"I thank you." Ezralaya smiled with gratitude.

Margery once again spoke up in tunes of delight; "I know the King and I shall take great pleasure when playing." Tommen nodded receptively, with an eager smile, which irked his mother further as she inhaled a sharp stream of air through her thinned nostrils.

"I am glad to hear that." Ezralaya heartened with an enlightening smile.

King Tommen once again took up his Kingly role; "We pray that you enjoy the breakfast." He smiled sweetly.

"You are sat with my cousins." Margery informed, elated by the prospect she spoke.

"I thank you all." Ezralaya once again smiled softy, and then curtsied swiftly. She raised herself once again, but before she turn to walk away, she quickly shone Jaime an exclusive smile of thanks. He acknowledged her gesture with a gentle nod, and a small smile of pressed lips. Even though the moment had taken place in a minimal amount of time, she'd still had time to witness the displeasure the discoloured the Queen's face, due to witnessing their innocuous exchange of glances.

Ezralaya did not dwell and promptly moved aside.

Ezralaya and her Ladies took their place at their designated seats along banquet tables whilst her four guards lined the perimeter of the room, out of view, but always kept her in sight. They were, as Margery had informed, at the same table as her cousins; Alla, Elinor, Megga, Alysanne, Alyce and Meredyth, who were all utterly delightful.

Three courses were served throughout the morning in total; firstly, hot bread lathered in butter and drizzled with honey, and then topped with dashes of blackberry Jam.

A sustenance of lemon tea was served in between the first a second course, in order to cleanse the pallet.

Second, came a slaver pile high with rashers of greasy bacon, boiled eggs with the yolk split and oozing, as well as fried bread and sautéed mushrooms. Served with violatium – violets soaked in wine – sweetened with a trickle of honey.

And lastly arrived sweet course; succulent strawberry's laying on a bed on mint grass, sprinkled with the zest of a lemon.  
>With her last mouthful swallowed, Ezralaya was sure that she would not need feeding for the rest of the month.<p>

Partway through a conversation with the one of the Tyrell cousins, Ezralaya felt a hand tap gentle upon her shoulder, requesting her attention. She turned, and looked up. Behind her stood a woman, with a shapely figure, long, thick black hair and the eyes to match. A subtle beauty of secrecy. Her gown was a midnight blue, adorned with long bell sleeves and silver fastenings upon her shoulders.

"May I take a moment of your time." her voice was thick, with an accent that she recognised but couldn't quite place.

"Of course." Ezralaya replied politely. She turned to pardon herself from her acquaintances, and quickly noted how the Tyrell girls were sharing glances of concern between one another. Her descry had set her stomach into the swelling motions of watery currents. "Pardon me." she spoke, excusing her self to the view of Boeenna's smile of induced caution.

Together the fair and the sultry beauty walked side by side, venturing to the privacy of the outskirts of the ballroom.

"Forgive me for my discourtesy." The mystifying woman spoke. "I am Lady Taena Merryweather – though most refer to me as Taena of Myr."  
>Ezralaya smiled politely, her teeth like pearl glistening for Taena to covet. Her name and bearing meant very little to her comprehension. "I am Ezralaya Cosalario"<p>

"I know who you are." Taena smiled wryly, like she cherished some private joke that Ezralaya was not privy to. "The tales of your beauty are not exaggerated in the slightest, are they?" her long fingers, bronzed by Myr, reached forward and tentatively stroked her cheek, her sharp nails gently abrading across her supple skin.

Ezralaya fought the urge to flinch away, not wanting to seem insolent, and yet the Myrish woman's familiar touching was making her feel increasingly uncomfortable.

"I envy you, you know?" she began bewitchingly with captivating spells of allure that could only have been the conspiracies of dark magic.

"Nonsense, a Lady as beautiful as yourself can surely envy no one." Ezralaya answered, thankful her caresses had ceased.

"But you are the most beautiful. All beautiful women are in envy of the _most _beautiful." Ezralaya half-smiled, rather awkwardly for she had no response. "Besides that is not the basis of my envy."

"Oh." Ezralaya paused, having nothing further to contribute.

"I envy your freedom." She stated boldly, the words lashing off her Myrish tongue.

Ezralaya's eyebrows raised incredulously. "My Freedom?" _And yet I see no manacles and shackles prohibiting your freedom My Lady?  
><em>

_"_Yes – for you have sampled all worldly pleasures, both sinful and heavenly. The liberty you must feel knowing half the world has been inside you I cannot comprehend. You have bedded every kind of man. Tasted the sweat of merchants and licked the cocks of Princes. Oh how I envy you." Ezralaya was left mute and confounded. _Is she trying to shame me, degrade me, or humiliate me before her eyes? Am I in the midst of mockery? For never have I been mocked so frankly. I shall not baulk – _and baulk she did not.

She remained passive, a smile plastered across her face, her lips drawn tight and her cheeks pinched tight. "Your words have made it sound all the more wonderful." She responded, playing into her presumed disdain.

"To see you so young and radiant, so experienced and world wise. It makes my heart yearn for younger days." _Is she mocking me, truly? _Ezralaya began to doubt herself. She could not fathom Lady Taena's insinuations. "Seeing you so….hearty, makes me regret the day I trothed my vows." _She speaks words of envy so uncouthly. _"Do you have any desire to marry?"

"Desire indeed, plans; none as such. I am content with the workings of my world and have no desire to disrupt my internal peace."

"Marriage can make or break a woman" Lady Taena spoke, in a way that couldn't go ignored. "I was different in Myr – I could've been like you. My Westerosi marriage broke me, and I rue the day it did." _Why would anyone want to be like me? _She thought troubledly.

"My Lady Taena." A different, but familiar voice spoke. Ezralaya turned, and was thankful to see the sight of Ser Jaime approaching. She smiled, welcoming his presence.

"Lord Commander." She replied pleasantly.

"The Queen has requested your presence." He informed, his gold hand glistening in the daylight. "She's returned to her solar, and wishes to change. Her gown having become uncomfortable."

"Very well" she went to leave, but then turned back to Ezralaya. "We must speak again. I wish to know everything about you." Ezralaya smiled unsurely as Lady Taena walked away, with a spellbinding swish in her hips. Lady Taena was no less a mystery that what had been only a few moments ago.

She turned to Jaime, whose eyes had meandered a little too far below eye level, though he quickly remembered himself, and returned to her waiting gaze.

"I'd be wary of her." Jaime warned forebodingly, as if reading her minds thoughts.

"How so?" Ezralaya questioned quizzically. Lady Taena was palpably mysterious, but was that obscurity enfolded with danger?

"Well she spends more time in my sisters bed that her husbands for one." He began, candidly. "She arrived with the Tyrell's though now slights them. Lady Taena can dance the same dance to many a different melodies." He paused for a moment. "I am still surprised my sister decided to take her into her confidence. She drifts so easily from house to house."

"I shall indeed by all the more cautious around her." she smiled, and he smiled too. "She has baffled me with the words she has spoken." Ezralaya shook her head, thinking over their conversation.

Someone caught Jaime sight, and his attentions were stolen from her; "I must return to my duties." He spoke regretfully. "Though before I go, I wanted to thank you." He went to speak, but then ceased when she thought he was going to say more.

"What for?" she prompted.

"For last night. My spirits were low, and yet you managed to raise them once again. A rather dyer night turned out to be a rather enjoyable, because of you."

"Well I could say the same to you." She answered coyly. An odd, yet comfortable silence passed between them. "I also, would like to thank you for earlier."

"My sister is enough to infuriate a silent sister into bellowing aloud." Ezralaya laughed softly. "Do not be fazed by her."

"I shan't" Ezralaya resolved. "There are too many things I want to see and want to do before I leave. I don't have enough time to be fazed."

"What do you wish to see?" he asked, curiously.

"The rest of the Red Keep, the Godswood, the White Sword Tower, the harbour, The Sept, The Dragon's pit. The rest of Westeros; from the Tower of Joy in Dorne, to the fertile fields of the Storm lands. Everything."

"A war wages on. Parts of Westeros are inhospitable. You must be careful where you explorations lead you." He advised prudently. "Though I can promise a personal tour of the White Sword tower." He'd spoken it half in jest though her eyes lit up in wonder.

"Truly?" She spoke, intrigued and hopeful.

"If you wish it." he resolved, with a single bout of doubtful laughter.

"Of course I'd love too." Already she was eager and enthused. The prospects witnessing newfound ventures made her heart flutter.

"Very well then." He smiled a conclusive smile, the remembrance that he was required re-evoked across his recognition. "Forgive me, I must return to the King. May I escort you anywhere? Back to your table, to your chambers?"

"No, no you may go about your duties. I can find my own way back."

"I bid you a good day." His head bobbed low, and she mirrored the courteous gesture.

"Until the morrow, My Lord."

"Jaime." He amended, with a smile that cut and kissed her like the blade of a knife.

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><p><em>Thanks again! Please leave a review :)<em>


	4. Bears, Banquets and Betrayals

**A/N**- Hello! Sorry it's taken me so long to update (again), however this is quite a long chapter to make up for the delay.  
>Thank you again for the support. Your reviews make my day! The next chapter will be up ASAP!<br>Enjoy!

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><p><span>Jaime <span>

The Great Sept of Baelor basked in its own magnificence.

The dome of glass and crystal encased the circular hall, sectioned by seven broad isles. With floors of ivory marble and walls of rich oak, glided by contours of gold. The window above the alter depicted the seven pointed star of the faith, its leaded windows comprised of panes of stained-glass, the sun's rays leaking through in varying hues of colour, making the sacred emblem all the more captivating.

Monumental candelabras and colossal bouquets of white ranunculus framed the raised alter. Two towering glided statues of the Father and the Mother stood illustriously tall, overlooking the matrimonial proceedings.  
>King Tommen, <em>my son, <em>stood with regal poise, dressed in long-sleeved jerkin of bronzed russet, speckled with daubs of gold. Accompanied by the corresponding breeches. His golden crown perched neatly atop of his golden-hair. The boy had not once ceased to smile.

Opposite, stood the girl who was no more than a few sentences away from becoming Queen. Sweet maid Margery stood two or so inches taller than her future Husband, and looked far more mature than her tender sixteen years. Cloth of gold sheathed her fair form, her light brown locks whorled down her shoulder fluently with a golden circlet, almost like a halo, rested upon her head. She stood radiantly, fair in aspect with a desirable grace. None other stood so lovely as the Lady Margery. _Well, a_ll _except one.  
><em>

And for once, the exception was not his _sweet _sister. Cersei looked morbid and sullen garbed in black velvet. Leaden shaded silk inlayed the bell sleeves, whilst a silver pendant dangled around her neck, and disappeared below the upper hemline of her gown. Her hair was twizzled formally in her two usual twists, with the crown of her head cushioned with layers of plaits and braids.

Her nerves had been overwrought with both fear and fret from the moment her eyes had opened –which incidentally had been around the same time as Jaime, seen as she had been the one banging on his door at the crack of dawn; still dressed in her silken night robe and wanting to discuss over the protection of her son throughout the day's events.

Jaime played his part, and explained over a cup of wine the precautions and the routines for the day ahead, as well as the plans for if anything went array. He'd been so meticulous and precise when sorting the arrangements for the King's Guard, that Cersei for once found no scrutiny.

After a drawn out silence, the only response she'd offered was; _"That old hag wants her granddaughter to spend the night in Tommen's bed. I have acquiesced. Though you will remain in Tommen's bedchamber the whole night to ensure that nothing happens." _Her request spoke discreetly of her venal priorities.

Jaime had initially protested, Tommen too young to understand the fundamental mechanisms of the coupling world. But Cersei's inexorable insistence had him concurring, even if only to silence her. By the time their early morning encounter came to a conclusion, Cersei had consumed two large flagons of wine, him only having had one cup. And now, stood in the Great Sept he could see the repercussions over her early morning inebriation bleeding into her eyes. _If you keep going at this rate sweet sister, you'll miss the burning of the Tower. You'll be blacked out whilst we all blister and burn to death at your behest.  
><em>

It was the ambiguity named Ezralaya Cosalario that had surpassed even the blushing bride with her beauty. She, and two of her Ladies had come to the Wedding ceremony clothed like traditional, southern Westerosi women. A notable mark of respect to the holy edifice and a kindness to the Lady Margery.

Stood a few rows back, Ezralaya wore a long gown, of thick deep mauve material, etched with plum stitching of shimmering leaves, which acted in continuation across the length and breadth of the gown. It fell loosely off her shoulders, a golden chain occupied the plain space of her chest. The extensive bell sleeves hung long down her body, and the wine silk within, glistened when the daylight fell upon it.

Her long white-blonde hair was styled the same as his sisters, with two long twirls hanging down her front, whilst the crown of her head lay array with mounted plaits. Cersei's hair boarded on being straw-like in comparison to Ezralaya's spun-gold threads. Her Ladies stood either side of her; an older flaxen haired one, and a lovely brunette, were clad in similar colours and patterns, though on a lesser degree of splendour.

His eyes lingered a little too long upon her exquisite presence, as without warning her eyes flicked up and latched onto his eye line. The piercing shade visibly startled him, though more so due to the realisation that he'd been caught gawking. All she did was smile back at him. A smile as sweet as a summer bloom.

Her attentions promptly turned back to the ongoing ceremony, Jaime turned back also and observed the habitual cloaking ceremony. Tommen lifted the hefty weight of the cloak and thankfully managed to shroud Margery on his first attempt.

The cloak that cascaded down Margery's lean frame was the same one that he'd watched Robert Baratheon cloak his sister in many years ago. Back then, the cloak had been vibrant, and vivid, with a black stag stalking of a field of gold. Though now, draped upon Westeros's new Queen, the colours had receded and the stag no longer appeared so mighty. _The boys not a stag. He's a lion. Through and through.  
><em>

The cloaks discolouration demonstrated Cersei's lack of sentiment toward the memories of her wedding day. If a fondness had endured then the cloak would have been preserved and well-kept. _She wanted both her sons to cloak their brides in Lannister Crimson. She presumed that the Stag would never again see daylight.  
><em>

The High Septon's strident voice filled the glass-topped vault; _"Cursed be he, who would seek to tear them asunder" _The velvet stripthat bound their hands together was unravelled, and their hands clasped onto one another's.

The fair-headed child King turned assuredly to his spectators. His gentle, still slightly shrill voice spoke aloud; "With this kiss, I pledge my love." With that, he stretched himself tall, leant forward and placed a tender, chaste kiss upon his new bride's lips.

A subdued show of ovation followed, as people joined their palms together in the repetitive sound of clapping. He glanced to his sister and saw that her hands clapped reluctantly in slow, blunt beats, her face harmonised with the dreary melody of her own making.

The congregation proceeded on back to the Red Keep. Jaime rode his white stallion, with his white cloak catching the air and flapping behind him in the gentle breeze. A peculiar familiarity apprehend Jaime, as he trotted alongside the carriage of Tommen and his new Queen.

The last time he'd been in the seven towered Sept was when standing over his father in vigil, only a matter of weeks ago. The stench of death still singed his nostrils. And now, the journey he was currently taking, was the same one he'd taken once he'd seen his father's body sent off to the west.

The whole commotion had passed by so fleetingly that Jaime barely had time to register what was happening. And with Tyrion gone…._No, no, let me not think of him. _The veiled guilt and woe of his brother's absence were still too raw. _Damn you._

They arrived at the Red Keep a little while later. The whole procession had been a slow and longwinded process. Exacerbated by Margery's cousin who kept hopping out of their carriage every few minutes to hand out alms to the poor each time a wretch begged loudly enough.

The crowds had come out in numbers, but they had not cheered, nor hailed praise to their King. If fact, apart from the barefaced beggars, the hordes of raggedy-tattered people were virtually mute. Yet they stared at the moving carriages with a resentful fixation. The silence merged with the hateful stares made for a very unnerving journey back down Visenya's Hill.

Margery and Tommen went their separate ways to freshen up and prepare for the banquet, once they were protected by the robust, resilient walls of the Red Keep. Margery and her Ladies dispersed in a flurry of jade back to the Maiden Vault. Whilst Jaime, Loras Tyrell and Osmund Kettleblack, escorted the young King back to his chambers within Maegor's holdfast to wait out the time until the commencement of the feast. Loras and Osmund, remained out of the room, and stood guarding the door of Tommen's chambers at Jaime's command.

"Did I do ok Uncle?" his _son _asked, whilst removing the heavy burden of his crown from upon his fragile head, to offer himself a few moments of relief, before having to bear it once again.

"You did very well you Grace." Jaime answered, pouring out a cup of warm lemon water for Tommen, him having complained about the aridity and soreness of his throat upon their arrival back to his chambers.

"Did I speak loudly enough? My mother said that I must project my voice so that it resounds as clear as day with the Sept - like a King." He took numerous slow gulps, allowing the warmth of the liquid to soothe the tender drought within his mouth.

"I heard every single word." Jaime replied with a reassuring intonation, his left hand absentmindedly gripping onto his sword, whist his phantom fingers ached upon the other.

"Though you were stood rather close to me." his brow creased in thought, the same ways Cersei's often did when she was concentrating. "Mother will be angry if I mumbled for vows."

"I assure your Grace, you did not mumble." The boy smiled, relieved.

As though she'd heard her own name be uttered, the woman they'd spoken of entered the room in a miasma of drab shades.

"What are you drinking?" she demanded of Tommen, still mid-stride and half a room away.

"Some lemon water." Tommen answered, timidly. His finger stroking the rim of the cup of which only the dregs remained at the bottom.

"Why?" she questioned, bracing her arms upon one of the high, straight back chairs of the table Tommen sat at.

The boy looked up Jaime hovering by his side, silently asking him to bolster the truth; "His Grace's throat was a little sore when we arrived back to the Red Keep – we though a little warmth would ease the discomfort." Cersei launched forward at Tommen like an inexorable shadow of black and pressed her palm against his forehead in search of a raised temperature.

"Are you Ill?" she probed anxiously, as Tommen tried to squirm free of her cossetting gestures. "Tommen do you feel unwell?" she demanded to know.

"No mother, I feel fine." Tommen maintained with a huff under his breath, craning his head out of her reach.

She turned to Jaime, overcome with angst; "Should I summon Pycelle?" her eyes bustled with dread.

"What? – No – Cersei, he was thirsty, the air was dry and he spoke very loudly so that all would hear him in the Sept."

Cersei remained unresolved. Her lips pursed and her teeth nipped at her bottom lip, whilst she folded her arms over herself. "Tommen leave us a moment."

"But mother it's…"

Her strident tone stifled his feeble protests into nonentity; "Go Tommen!" he stared at her aghast and uncomprehensive.

"Now!" she hollered, her arm striking out with a finger pointed toward the adjacent door that led to his bedchamber.

"And why aren't you wearing your Crown!" she yelled, as a hindered rebuke. Though the _King _had already scampered away from his mother's frenzy, and now hid behind a wooden door.

Once Tommen's presence was removed, she cowered forward in exasperation, slipping down into one of the cushioned seats.

"Was that really necessary?" Jaime questioned, with a hint of habitual sneer.

Her fingers tentatively probed into her gilded hairline, as her eyes remained fixated upon a vacant point of air. Slowly, yet vituperatively, her head turned back around to face him, her eyes slithering around within their sockets.

Her voice that spoke her words was pallid and defined, she spoke so inertly that Jaime found himself bracing his reflexes to act in defence against her hysteria induced wroth; "Need I remind you of Joffrey's wedding day? A sore throat could be signs of gradual poisoning throughout the day."

"Cersei, don't be inane." Her brows raised up in high, riled arches.

"Don't be inane?" she echoed in a satirising tone, contorting his words rhetorically. "How dare you. I watched my son die in agony at the throttling hands of poison." _No less than he deserved. "_I cannot be too careful!" Her fist were clenched into white balls of stretched skin.

"Tommen has a sore throat. He's only young." Jaime reasoned as best he could, but it came at no avail.

"Exactly." She spat in blatancy. "He is young, and meek and mild. As fragile as a seed-headed dandelion and as docile as a dog." Her flagrant disgust at her own son's gentleness was something that Jaime found hard to construe. "He can't even suffer _that _for an hour." She pointed directly at his crown, which sat atop the dark-oak table. A thick circle of wiled gold, dashed with large rubies upon the gilded turrets.

The kingly piece was by no way light weight. It was a heavy, burdensome thing, and Jaime pitied having to put it upon the boy's fragile head, first thing in the premature hours of his wedding day. Not to mention the fact that it was too big for him and merely slipped down his head, falling onto his ears, which would not doubt be chaffed red raw by dusk.

"We must toughen him up or else The Iron throne shall rip him to red ribbons."

"Cersei, he's just a boy." Jaime protested mildly, as she drew up into a stance, manoeuvring around the chair of which she'd sat.

"Joff was never so insipid"

"Joff was a vicious bastard." Jaime countered tersely. Cersei glared at him hatefully, though no malicious words amounted from her scowls. _She knows it's true._

Her gaze fell low, and her posture slumped as she exhaled thinly; "Jaime we must make a man of him. _Of our son" _she appended in a low cautious undertone. "Or else the Kingdom's shall crush him."

_He's not my son – you made sure of that – don't weave those words to me. _"_Your _son is only thirteen." Her eyes narrowed at his determiner. "Let him grow into himself. There is nothing wrong with timidity."

"There is, he's King!" she disputed.

"He's a child. Just let him be Cersei." His temper was slipping through the gaps of his remaining five fingers.

With her hands on her hips, she strode before him. Her head tilted forebodingly. Her emerald eyes measured their exact replica, his own.

"Not all men are cowards, brother." She hissed delicately, a sharply pinched whisper.

"Are you implying I'm a coward?" _Again. All because I refused to be the bloody Hand.  
><em>

"Of course not." She smiled a smile tainted by contempt, then stepped back a few paces. "You'll guard Tommen today, won't you? You'll protect him with your life?" fear had seized her once again.

"Of course." He vowed devotedly in assurance.

"The Tyrell's are everywhere." Cersei uttered in a sinister way, one that sounded almost foreboding with misery.

"Yes, to see a daughter of their house be wed." she shook her head witheringly, '_he doesn't understand' _no doubt she thought. _I do understand, I understand that you have been crippled by paranoia. _

"Just, try and enjoy the day." He reached for her arm, but she flinched away in rebuff.

"Enjoy it?" she questioned his words. "How am I supposed to watch my son sit married to that scheming bitch?" Her hatred was emitting into intense sparks of intangible animosity.

"He likes her." Jaime upheld without cause. "Maybe it'll be a marriage of love." _Why am I defending the Tyrell girl? Why am I defending any a one of them? Like I give two shits about the Roses of Highgarden.  
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"No one is that lucky." Cersei was always cynical when it came to love. Jaime had begun to wonder in recent days if she even understood the concept.

"Mother and Father?" Jaime offered up. It was well known that Tywin Lannister loved no other how he'd loved their Lady mother, Joanna. Although he seldom spoke of her, the mention of her name made his eyes glisten with her memory. His uncle Gerion often said that the best part of Tywin died with Joanna. The latter always made Jaime feel queerly melancholy.

"It was sweet whilst it lasted – though the love our father bore toward her ruptured his lionly nature." _Always the pessimist. And always so goddam blinkered_.

His sister was rendering him weary; "Say what you will, Tommen is married." The abruptness seemingly knocked her down a step upon her self-constructed ladder of fortitude.

She sighed pungently. _I wonder if I infuriate her, as much as she infuriates me these days._

"An unconsummated marriage, is no true marriage. Protect your King and ensure things remain that way." Jaime had already made her that promise upon the first lights of dawn.

"Indeed." He answered, forthrightly, hoping to conclude their exchange of inconsequential bickery.

Though she was not quite ready to sever their chain of conversing; "The Alcehmist's tell me all is ready – the wildfire is assembled beneath the Tower of The Hand."

"Wonderful. I cannot wait to be burnt alive come twilight."

Immediately, she hurdled aloud her words of vindication; "It's safe! They told me so. It's contained and there is no chance of it spreading."

"It's called_ wild _fire for a reason sweet sister." Every hint of condescension was intended. Cersei was oblivious to her own follies. Her irrational nature continued to hold all their lives in a loose grasp above the black abyss of peril.

"Nevertheless, the occasion would make for a jolly good song. I wonder what the singers would call it. – I know; _The Queen who cooked her subjects or The Tower that Killed the King or….."  
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"Enough." She raised a flat palm to silence in mockery. He acquiesced. Though a lazy, subtle smirk remained upon his face. "How funny you are." She said, unsmilingly. "The tower will burn." Her assertion was definite.

"At your command." He, nor his men, nor any other would take responsibility for the grand spectacle of his sister's doing. The burning of the tower of the hand was going to be of her own making and he had half a mind to tell her ignite the Wildfire herself so none other could incriminated by her madness.

"I want it gone Jaime." Her teeth and jaw clenched so hard her cheek quivered. He understood why. He wanted the unsightly thing gone as well. Whenever he gazed upon its edifice or, whenever its vast shadow fell o'er the White Sword Tower it reminded him of his father, and his untimely death. And of _he_ who'd caused it.

"I know." He agreed. It was a tender subject, one he cared no to broach.

"You never know, the flames may chase out the vermin or any _imps _that may be hiding within the passages."

"Tyrion's not in there Cersei." It had been a long time since Jaime had said his brother's name aloud. And still it hurt no less.

"Just to be sure." _He's not in there because I released him. He's most likely waddling his way around one of the Free Cities as we speak. _The truths were on the very tip of his tongue, but he did not relinquish all he knew.

The guilt came in peaks and troughs, but at its crowning, it truly, truly hurt his heart. _I freed him because he was innocent and he repaid me with our father's blood. Damn him. _

"Very well." He concluded. Her resolution was impenetrable, and he had not the care to try and imbue it. "The hour of the feast approaches. We must make our way."

"The sooner it begins, the sooner it shall all be over." _And the sooner we'll all be stood before the flames of a colossal candle. Gods, save us all from my sweet sister's madness._

The Wedding Feast was a grand affair, though not so grand as its predecessor.

An array of courses was served throughout the banquet. From, wild boar, stuffed with olives, peppers and onions, and then smothered in brown gravy, having been braised for hours within its own fat, the meat practically fell off the bone. To honey-roasted chicken, stuffed with creamed cheese, and waxed over with a sauce of garlic.

Tables were piled high with aurochs, thick soups of venison and red cabbage, bowls of spinach, pickled plums and crushed nuts and herbs, all for seasoning. With sides of sweet-bread, salads of sweet grass, and the sprinklings of pomegranate seeds.

Jugglers, tumblers, magicians and trapeze artists had the Small Hall of Maegor's Holdfast in engrossed silence, apart from the moments of frequent ovation, and the sound of sharp gasps of young girls in sheer amazement. The fool took centre stage a little while later. Mace Tyrell laughed so hard Jaime watched wine spew out of his nose and Tommen could hardly breathe for fits of laughter kept seizing him. Margery had laughed along pleasantly too, though not quite so immaturely as her young _third_ husband. Cersei looked as unamused as Jaime felt.

Whilst the rest of the room gallivanted in glee and jubilation, Jaime Lannister had a duty to uphold. He could not divulge on the food nor savour the sweet flavour of Dornish wine. Until the night was done, he would not rest. He needed to keep clear head and to be on high alert lest a fatal incident occur.

Whenever he heard, a gasp, a scream, a shout, he immediately assumed that Tommen was sprawled out on the floor; halfway to death and in the midst of spasms and convulsions. His faced lined by bulbous purple veins, threating to fissure, with blood and bile and vomitus caked around his lips. His eyes bleeding blood, streaking his temples red. Every time fear seized him, so did the memory of Joffrey's death, which played out before his very eyes like a private manifestation. He shook his head and blinked rapidly to cast the visions aside, though their absence was only ever transient.

The sweet courses were being served just as the mists of night began to chase away the daylight of the outside world. Lemon cakes came out first, sprinkled with sugar, and drizzled with honey. Then came apple strudels, imbued with cinnamon and traces of ginger. A fruit course followed, of diced apples, blackberries, gooseberries, cherries and the essences of burdock, all of which polished off the nightly spread.

Jaime, stood upon the upper circle, surveying the room with a cautious, circumspect eye. He glanced across to the far side of the room saw Ezralaya sat with her Ladies, laughing, chattering and making merry, indulging upon the last few mouthfuls of lemon cake that remained on her salver.

She, and her ten Ladies were sat in courteous proximity to the King's presence, but also an acceptable distance away so that his mother would not have to suffer the sight of her.

Ezralaya had changed out of her Westerosi gown from early at the ceremony. Now she wore a gown of lilac silk, though it was hardly a gown, for she had morphed back into her Volantian elegances. The silk, covered her right shoulder, and then swooped down across her body in a sash, ending up just above her waistline in wilted glossy pleats. The entirety of her left shoulder was left exposed, as would her left breast have been, had a bralette of lavender diamonds not been there. A thick band of silver cinched her in at the waist, outlining her petite figure. The rest of the silk flowed elegantly down her body, a daring slit split the skirt in two. Her hair was partly up, the top assembled into plaits, woven and spun into coils which resembled the tightly clustered petals of a rose in early bloom. The rest of her hair hung down to the small of her back, like a river of rippling gold. Upon her head, balanced a large creation, of spun silver. The piece was finely detailed with huge arches, enwrapped by vines of silver, in which a jewel floated beneath the curve, honed with webbings of silvery strands and fine dangling chains. _She shines with the glorious radiance of our gracious sun, and yet glows with the same essence as the humble moon above._

The dark-skinned-dark-haired, girl spoke something into her ear, and whatever she had spoken, had caused Ezralaya great amusement, for she laughed aloud so charmingly in hilarity. It was a wonderful sound, one of which he found himself relishing. For it evinced a winsome harmony with a resonance that even the most gifted of musicians could never dream to emulate.

All of a sudden, she rose from her seat, five of her Ladies shadowing her rise. _Surely she can't be leaving so soon? The night is still so young and so is she.  
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It was only when his gaze meandered on ahead of her reckoned direction that he saw Margery Tyrell beckoning her over, her cousins coaxing Ezralaya over, with smiles and waves.

All at once, in a bustle of lilac silk and Tyrell greens and gold's, a danced commenced. The sound of thrummed strings, compressed concertinas and the swishing's of air propelling through wooden pan-flutes, evoked the commotion of a song within the Small Hall. The velvety voice of some sweet singer accompanied the brightly thrilled descant.

The tune started slow, with the soft plucking of musical threads, and then gradually thrived into the beloved, yet ribald song of _The Bear and the Maiden Fair.  
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Ezralaya Ladies, and Margery's Ladies joined in a circle at the centre of the hall, their hands linked.

_Oh come they said, come to the fair, the fair said he but I'm a bear!_

The Ladies spiralled around in the delightful formation. They skipped, and twirled, and pranced around in rings.

_All black and brown and covered with hair! _

None appeared to miss a single beat or step. Every breath and motion was perfectly timed. So much so it seemed like they'd been practising for a life time. The spontaneity made it all the wonderful.

_Three boys, a goat and a dancing bear, __they danced and spun, all the way to the fair__. _

They formed arches with their arms, as the others capered through in melodical configurations.

_The Bear! The Bear! _

A double clap sound out the two words, and before long the whole Hall was clapping along with arms swayed and their hands clapped, whilst wide-grins painted their faces, and laughter bubbled out of their mouths. It was a welcomed scene for all. And the composition made for delightful change from that _goddam Lannister song.  
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The sight of Ezralaya smiling so freely and so gaily, caused an involuntary beam to spread itself across his face. If fact, it was only when his sister voice shattered his illusions that he realised how extensive his smiles of contentment had become; "She's a little young for you – don't you think?" she snided, leaning forward to rest her elbows on the bannister beside him.

The smile dissolved instantly from his face, and was replaced by the stoic expression that he had once worn. He sidestepped her jeer and turned to her with an incredulously raised eyebrow; "Jealous?" Her brow creased amusedly in response.

"Jealous? Of that slut? – I think not brother." She laughed darkly. "There's more chance of Casterly Rock melting into the Sunset Sea." Jaime glanced back down at the swaying damsels.

_Oh, sweet she was, and pure and fair! The maid with honey in her hair_!

_- And oh how sweet and fair she is _he thought shamelessly.

"Everyone in the hall is jealous of her – She's the richest, most beautiful woman in the world – according to voice of the Westeros that is." Jaime voiced pointedly.

"Not me." Spoke Cersei, with deep-seethed revulsion kept at a simmer. A conclusive statement.

_He smelled the scent on the summer air! He sniffed and roared and smelled it there!_

He scoured her face in search for the trace of an untruth. Though upon her face all he found was hatred and callousness – like a marble, exquisite for the eyes to exult, yet just as cold as the body of slate to the touch.

In her day, Cersei would have been a pertinent contender against the beauty of Ezralaya. Except now, her flame of vitality, youth and beauty was dimming, the remaining embers merely turning into bitter ash and dust, whilst the smell of smoky-woodchip lingered on forever, continuously taunting her with the memory of the days when her flame burned the brightest of all.

"Why do you loathe her so?" he questioned. Cersei's gaze was absorbed in obsessive abhorrence, when observing the dancing _maidens _below. Usually Cersei gave very little away, she held her composure as statuesque as Baelor the Blessed, but when Jaime looked into her eyes he could tell that a fiery turmoil of angst, hatred and fear burned within her, turning her core to charred pebbles.

He could tell by the rigidity of her neck that she was desperate to look away, to free herself from the shackles of her integral malice, but her obduracy prohibited such mercy. She has a _heart of stone, with eyes of coal _he thought bleakly.

Jaime moderately understood his sister's hatred of the flowery girl from High Garden, but Ezralaya was a stranger from another land far away, merely a caller passing by, she had no desire to marry the King, no Mother to take up Court or no Father to submerge himself within political intrigue. Though evidently the budding friendship between the two aforesaid had goaded his sister's thoughts of hatred into emphatic concepts of conspiracy and scheming. Jaime's gazed wandered from Cersei's spite stricken mien, back to Ezralaya's demeanour of radiating joy.

_Oh I'm a maid of pure and fair! I'll never dance with a hairy bear._

"She's a whore." Cersei put simply. "And whores don't dine with Kings and Queens." Like him, Cersei had been raised within The Rock of Lannisport, all her life she'd been blessed with boundless wealth and fortune, and bestowed with the rarest of privileges, ones of which few get to behold.

And yet anyone who observed would have thought it was she who had been raised in the gutter with not so much as a copper to her name. For Ezralaya smiled so brightly no one would never have known that she'd endured such extensive misery.

Being blessed with a life of everything had left Cersei wanting all that she could never attain, as eternal youth and beauty could not be bought – not even with all the gold of Casterly Rock.

_The Bear, the Bear! _Clap-Clap. _Lifted her high into the air!_

"She's built and empire from dust and dirt. And desires to help _your _people, she told me she wants to establish bathhouses and orphanages within the city –Surely that's commendable." He reasoned with a slight shrug. He felt her gaze turn upon him, laying on his skin as nicely as a swarm of wasps.

Her eyes had narrowed, he knew just by the menace in her voice; "If you dare shame our family with that whore I will…."

Jaime cut her off with an abrupt retort; "You'll what? Kill me?" he ridiculed her own inaptitude.

She could impend the threat of his death until she was blue in the face, but they both knew she would never go through with it. She was far too paranoid to kill off her other half, just in case his death also meant her own. "We both know you won't." he grinned slyly, just to added a little more pungency to his affront.

_She kicked and wailed the Maid so fair, but he licked the honey from her hair. _

The dance beneath was all the made his sisters company tolerable. Their slender bodies twirling, their arms swaying with grace, with air uplifting the light fabric of their gowns as the pirouetted in sequence. Jaime chortled unamusedly; "She's no fool you know. She'll see through your false flattery like a pane of glass. Genuine kindness shall be the only want to win her favor, and in turn reap the rewards." Ending with; "She's a lovely person."

Cersei paid no heed to the latter; "Don't shame our family." She spoke ardently, a growl fused her words together.

S_he sighed and squealed and kicked the air! My bear! She sang. My bear so fair!_

He turned to look upon her, his whole body shifting within a heartbeat; "Shame our family or betray you…." Her face hardened and her nostrils thinned into slits through the drawing in of breath. "Tell me, what would be worse?" her upper lip warped up like a snarl.

Though her retort came too late as the Hall erupted into the sound of hearty applause, a few whistles rarefying the air. He glanced down and saw the Ladies bowing and curtseying in thanks, Margery and Ezralaya stood together hand in hand, laughing in clandestine.

Just to kindle Cersei's internal fire of fury a little wilder, he too clapped along. Except the sound of his hand of flesh meeting his golden limb proclaimed a sort of dull-clunk with a blunt ricochet which heralded little volume, it was more like the clap of a mourner. Nonetheless, his intended slight exceled with the clarity of candlelight cutting through a scope of darkness.

Even when the people's ovation began to dwindle, Cersei remained reluctant to offer a response.

"Say, Sweet Sister, Shall you do me the honor of a dance?" her face furrowed with thick lines of distaste when glancing down at his golden hand extended toward her. She looked down on it like he was presenting her with a handful of shit.

"What? You and I?" she laughed flippantly under her breath. "You'll make a jester of us both with that ugly stump. I think not." With that final insult she turned on her heel and headed away, her black velvet skirts trailing behind her.

Somewhere along her travels, she must have encountered their Uncle Keven, for the next moment he saw her back down on the main gallery they were walking together side by side, Osney Kettleblack loitering at her tails like some irritating fly.

Jaime searched amongst the people to find the King. Sat upon his royal chair, Tommen glared at his new Queen adoringly, in awe of every word she spoke. Loras Tyrell was stood nearby, guarding efficiently and draped in his newly attained white cloak. Jaime's gazed meandered further afield, with a sharp eye he surveyed the area to ensure all was well and his King was kept safe.

He could feel himself wearying within his own skin, yet he was well aware that he still had the whole night ahead of him. Merely watching over two children sleep in peace beneath the downy covers of the King's bed – somewhat married, as an imperative part of a marriage would still remain amiss come sunrise. _A long night awaits me _he groaned within his throat.

"The Queen looks very beautiful tonight." A voice spoke unexpectedly. The silver-haired utterer approached and loomed beside Jaime like a pewter shadow. Aurane Waters looked on ahead at the woman he had spoken so fondly of and Jaime followed his direction of sight. His sister no longer stood with their uncle, but stood maddeningly close to Osney Kettleblack. Her fingers tracings over the crests and ridges of the Black Kettle of his house sigil upon his breastplate. _Swine.  
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He answered begrudgingly, his words sounding aloud as reticent as they had been coined within him; "Indeed" admittedly, even in the drab shades of bereavement she was still beautiful. And that irked him infinitely_ if she wasn't so beautiful it might be easier to loathe her for what she really is.  
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"Do you think it's true, what they say…?" Aurane began absentmindedly, beginning to twizzle a silver tress around a willowy finger.

Jaime's eyes tapered when Aurane ceased to prosper with his tidings, his words waning abstractedly. "Think what's true?" He prompted. Aurane spoke in tongues and Jaime Lannister was not a man made to decipher riddles or elucidate half spoken conundrums.

"That she fucks Osney Kettleblack." _Is he trying to be funny? _Jaime whole face winced so hard it jolted his body. His stump, encased in gold, ached and throbbed, as his phantom hand had attempted to form a fighter's fist. A nauseous notion took root within his belly, its seeds of doubt spreading and growing within his core, like a poisonous weed.

"I hope that was a bad jest." Jaime spoke punitively in warning, silently, yet perceptibly imploring Aurane to confess and then recant his poorly constructed canard.

Alas, regret did not surface upon his countenance. In actuality, a coy grin cracked his handsome face in two.

Aurane Waters was more of a conceptual wonder than a concrete being and spoke as though he was articulating from another world; "Forgive me Lord Commander, for a moment I forgot she was your sister." _I forget sometimes too_. Be that as it may, his answer was not the one Jaime Lannister had longed for.

He gulped, though his windpipe felt like an iron rod. The jutting marble shaped protuberance that wavered with a swallow upon his neck had turned to a clump of gravel. Every gulp felt like his throat was internally being grated to bloody shreds of fleshy tissue. His mouth had dried out, as the sour taste of impending betrayal coated over his tongue in a thick layer of moldy fur. The fervent pumping of his heart contrasted to the cold sweat that had saturated his body from head to toe.

His jaw clenched, his teeth did not detached even we he spoke. "Speak again, and speak true or else I'll have you hanged in chains." Spittle spewed in suppressed rage. An empty threat, yet the words did all they needed to do, for Aurane flinched and coiled in dread.

"My Lord…I…I…" he stuttered anxiously. "My Lord I meant no offence." For once Aurane had been submitted into the harsh reality of Westeros, no longer could he live inside a daydream.

"Where did you hear that?" Jaime demanded to know, asserting himself into intimidating proximity at Aurane's expense.

"My Lord, so many secrets and whispers pass through the air as we speak. It is hard to remember the origins of each whisperer." Again spoken so illusory.

"Is there any truth to it?" He did not yield. For any man to ask such a bold question, he himself must have held some belief that legitimacies lay behind the speculation.

"I asked you first my Lord." Jaime fist clenched at the hilt of his sword. Aurane saw the gesture and visibly regretted his conceit.

"Don't make me ask again." Jaime's voice harboured menace. He pondered how long Aurane would maintain his veneer of ignorance, before Jaime would resort to taking physical measures to shatter his artifices. _I wonder how handsome his face shall be once it's marred by an indentation courtesy of my golden hand.  
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Aurane began, uncomfortably, but candidly; "Osney is an arrogant man. A boastful man, scarcely known to conceal his…..triumphs." he had tried to choose his words carefully, but sadly had not chosen well enough.

Jaime apprehended the silver-headed visionary by the ruffled collar upon his ivory doublet. His left hand gripped tightly, pinching the material forcefully so that it squeezed his neck. Aurane gasped out farcically, his arms failing in desperation like he was undergoing strangulation.

"What did he say?" Jaime patience had reached the thinness of a strand of Aurane's silvered hair.

"In honestly my Lord I could not say." He fought for breath like a drowning man. "All I know is the telling's of others. They may be lies, they maybe truths." _Every lie fathers some aspect of a truth somewhere down the line – he knows the truth _Jaime determined when staring down into his eyes.

"Tell me what you know or else I'll tell my sister that you have been spreading filth about her." Aurane withered at the notion. Cersei was merciless, and her punishments would be far more callous than Jaime's chastisements.

Aurane sighed shakily; "They say Osney was bragging about having the Queen within her solar and even within her bed. They said the same of Lancel Lannister also." A shuddered passed down Jaime's back. _Lancel Lannister? _Utter horror rested upon his face. Jaime had never felt so staggered and was furious that Aurane Waters had been the one to tell him and then witness him work through the stages of despair.

"Lancel Lannister?" Jaime repeated, for both clarification and out of utter devastation. Aurane nodded as best he could with Jaime fist up-thrust under his chin. "When?" his voice had gone weak, chocked by a combination of numerous emotions.

"From what I know…." He jittered within Jaime's grasp. "Osney's relations have been fairly recent. Lancel, some time ago, possibly when your Lordship was in captivity." Jaime clenched his fingers tighter, watching the whimsicalness drain from Aurane's complexion. And then released his clutch, only to push him away with all the strength his left arm could muster.

Aurane fell back a few rickety paces, but managed to retain his balance in the end. Once freed he did not linger long, scuttling away like a timid mouse back into the land of his caprices.

_Lancel Lannister? Osney Kettleblack? She's probably fucking Moon Boy as well for all I know. _He shuddered in rage and fury but also in desolation and woe. He glanced down at her, still with Osney, laughing a laugh poisoned by fictitious sweetness._ No wonder she spurns me when she's got Osney Kettleblack to kindle her loins. _

Visions of them, naked, sweaty and panting, breached his mind. The conceptions hurt to contemplate, he rubbed his fingertips into his forehead to try and cast them away. The thought of her golden hair entwined with his wiry black fuzz, whilst he filled the space between her legs that was fashioned solely for his pleasure, made him feel bilious. _How could she?! _He groused from within. _How could she betray me? With Osney, with sickly sallow Lancel? How could she when I have only ever been faithful. Stupid bitch. _

His translucent hate of his sister had noticeably solidified within his gut into something much more detestable. He felt the change and alteration within himself. Originally he had only hated her for what she did to other people, but now it had become personal. She'd used his love for her own scheming, she'd toyed with his heart for years, with hollow promises and sweets words of nothing that had at once meant everything.

Jaime had never felt so foolish. A lifetime full of devotion, of love, his body, heart and soul, had been dedicated solely to her and had left him with nothing but betrayal.

It peeved him further once recalling her warning; _"Don't shame our family." _She had voiced only moments ago in relation to his nonexistent carnal union with Ezralaya. _How dare she lecture me when she shames us all with her wantonness!  
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Jaime allowed himself to simmer for a few moments within a dazed mind. So_ this is betrayal _Jaime supposed dryly. A numbness had transpired over him, once the initial rage had settled. He had still not left the upper-tier, merely eyeing his betrayer and her _paramour.  
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Initially he'd thought to confront her, or to shout it out to all the Lord and Ladies within the Small hall, to humiliate her, to shame her as a whore, as an adulterous. But then he realized that by doing such things would show her that he cared, and to show he cared meant showing that she'd hurt him, and he could never let that her know such a thing.

He'd never admit it and neither would she. They were equals and knowing the truth would give her one up on him, to taunt him, to drive the knife in a little deeper. _I hate her _he deemed sullenly _I hate her and she'll never know just how much._

Whether it was out of spite or want of a kind word, he found himself pacing over to Ezralaya's table.

She was surrounded by an assortment of Tyrell maidens, her own Ladies, some of the gentleman of her household, as well as other men simply courting her favour. In her highly-concentrated segment of the room, all he heard and saw was laughter, and glee coated faces combined with the exuded high-spiritedness of all those nearby. He hoped the ecstasy that pulsed through their veins in undulations of fervor and ardor was contagious, hoping that it would lighten his heavy heart.

It was as though he had crossed over some invisible threshold, from the gloom of his sister Court, and into vivacity of the upcoming Ladies of nobility, _a new era approaches, and Cersei can't thwart the inevitable. Unless she finds a way to live forever. _His latter thought proved to be a harrowing one.

He found Ezralaya sat between the Lady Margery, still donning her wedding garb, and her dark-haired Lady, whose measuring eyes were an unexpected piercing blue. It was she who looked up first, followed by Lady Margery, and then lastly Ezralaya who beamed him a smile so bright it was almost blinding to his woe.

He acknowledged Margery first, as befitting her newfound title; "Your Grace." He offered with a slight bow.

"My Lord" As always, she smiled graciously. Jaime turned his attentions wholly to Ezralaya, who was perched as neatly as a rain drop upon a petal.

He had the judging eyes of her Ladies upon him, deliberating his worthiness to address their saviour, which he found to be peculiarly intimidating.

"I was wondering, if maybe you'd like to dance?"

The fleeting pause between his proposition and her answer felt like a small eternity. It was the disdainful glances of those around her that made it all worse. Jaime was used to derisive glares and cruel remarks, it was an aptitude he'd developed over the many years of being called Kingslayer. In fact, the malice of others had enabled him to construct such an apathetic outlook that the opinions of others rarely, if ever, fazed him. In spite of this, a rejection from Ezralaya seemed to have the potential to penetrate his barricade of indifference and he was unsure as to why. _Perhaps Cersei's perfidy has left me a little more susceptible to hurt, seen as all I ever did was out of love for her. _

Thankfully, she rose, despite the impelling eyes of those around her urging _no, no, no. _

_"_Of course! I would be honoured to." She neatened her dress, soothing out a crease in her lilac silk gown that had formed from where she'd sat. Her dark-haired Lady looked patently displeased with her admission.

She turned to Margery; "May I be excused?"

"Of course" Margery beamed, reaching forward hold her hand from where she sat. "You must dance! I shall be watching and praising from afar." Ezralaya smiled readily, and began to maneuver her way around the lengthy table, and then through bustling inebriated people.

When she neared, he held up his golden appendage, curious to observe her reaction.

"Thank you for asking." She smiled, reaching forward to hold onto his forged hand, completely unfazed. He found it passing out how Cersei could be so contemptuous to him, and yet Ezralaya possessed such refinement as to respond to the exact same question with immense gratitude and appreciation.

_They are built from different fabrics entirely. Cersei wrought in Iron, and Ezralaya is a confection of silks and __chantilly lace. _Though Jaime knew just by the elusive zest of her aura and charisma that a ferocity cultivated within her, an irrepressible wildness lingered in her nature._ She may look as dainty as a sunbeam, but inside she has the fierceness of the flaming Sun._

They progressed on forward with mellow strides; "I saw you dancing earlier, I was unsure of whether you would want to exert yourself again."

"Nonsense." She protested, her other hand laying tentatively upon his arms, turning her body toward his as they walked. "I love to dance, I would be dancing all night long if I could. Though you are the first to ask." He as rather surprised at that, he assumed the whole throng of suitors he'd careened through to come before her, had been offering camaraderie to her all night long, though only to experience the bitter taste of denial.

"Truly?" he queried.

"Truly, you were the only one bold enough." Her retort was purported as a compliment, not as a criticism.

He smiled wryly; "The only reason no other men have asked you is because they are intimated."

"Am I intimidating?" She exclaimed dramatically, with a shocked gasp, gripping onto his arms in hyperbolic acts.

Jaime couldn't help but laugh, he knew she'd be the one to help him forget his sister's infidelity.

"They say you are the most beautiful women in the world, men can only envisage rejection."

Her eye brow raised curiously; "And yet you are the exception?"

"Westeros deemed me the most handsome man and so I feel there's a mutual sense of vanity between us." Ezralaya laughed aloud unreservedly, her head dipping forward a little in amusement.

"The most handsome?" she nudged him with a playful giggle, a charming smile spread widely across her face.

"Ah, maybe in my youth." He replied, knowing she'd take amusement in the droll.

"Oh how modest of you." She chortled, teasingly sardonic. Jaime shrugged indifferently, accompanied by a haughty grin.

Around nine other couples had congregated in the centre of the hall, awaiting the music to commence.

Jaime and Ezralaya aligned themselves accordingly; Jaime to the left in accord with the other gentleman, and Ezralaya opposite him. They stood betwixt Elinor Tyrell and her betrothed; Alyn Ambrose, and a pairing that Jaime did not recognize.

Ezralaya spoke up, whilst the musicians readied themselves to play a song that for once was not _The Rains of Castamere _

"You know..." she began, ensnaring his attentions within an instant. "I think it very peculiar how well arrogance suits you." _A __commendation_ _is embedded in them words….somewhere _he assumed, principally due to the hint of a smolder that rested upon her upper lip.

"Is that bad thing?" he queried, partly curious, partly fearful of her answer.

"On the Island I grew up on, there was a tale the Goats People of the isle used tell their children to steer them from vanity and overbearing pride. The tale went that a woman named Heloisa the Vainglory lived on Salazay during the Age of Hero's, they said she was the most beautiful woman in all of time, suitors came from all reaches of Slavers bay to gaze upon her magnificence. But you see Heloisa the Vainglory did not know what she looked like, and therefore was unconscious of her own beauty. It wasn't until a steady admirer bought her a looking-glass. And when she looked into the looking glass she fell in love with herself, and rejected all swains as she had become so self-obsessed that she could love no man as much as she loved herself. Her fascination of herself grew into an obsession in that she carried the looking-glass with her everywhere she went, walking with it out before her so all that she could see was herself. And one day, Heloisa so consumed by her loveliness failed to look where she was walking, and sadly tripped and tumbled down the well to her death. All that remained was the looking-glass. At first men were fearful to gaze upon it, believing it cursed and blasphemed by the suitor who had bestowed it, desiring to ruin her for all others. But one brave fellow gazed at his own reflection, and looked away loving himself no more, no less. Heloisa had blighted herself."

Jaime gaped back in a sort of half-lucid trance. An odd need to offer repentance, had clutched and squeezed at his heart, and yet he could not fathom why. He understood the tale, yet an opaque blur lingered upon the words.

Before he'd had time to voice his unease, the trilling of strings unsettled the air as music and song commenced. _The melody of the Mockingbird _began to take structure after a few twiddles, tweaks and taps. He was able to unencumber his mind as the dance commenced, allowing his body to conform into the flow of music, and coincide with Ezralaya's soft elegant glides.

He bowed first, slow and low, his hand held behind his back as chivalrous custom. Ezralaya responded with a refined courtesy, spreading out her dress as she dipped, allowing her lean bronzed leg to peak through. His heartrate quickened at the flirtatious sight she'd evidently intended him to see, as a mischievous smile tugged at her lips.

Their hands reached up like an arch, as they stepped in and out, she twizzled under his arm after the third in step, remaining in perfect congruence of the other pairs. He had wondered how the slight issue of his artificial limb would fair, however Ezralaya had merely adapted to a lighter grip upon his right hand, allowing her fingers to slip easily around the shiny metal.

The dance was very much female orientated, meaning Jaime's purpose was to ensure Ezralaya looked good – which she did; elegant and graceful. Beautiful, young and fruitful, she put all others to shame. He was not usually the dancing type, but he just couldn't resist asking her. It was like one of the tales of nobility and chivalry, in which the golden Knight danced with the fair maiden from a land far away.

Ezralaya's hair caught the air in a twirl, and it cascaded down like a golden waterfall. Every step was precise, every gesture perfectly timed, and twirl preformed with a smile so warm that it could thaw the hardest of hearts, _except my sisters. _

The world around him started to move in slow motion, with blurs and smudges of colour passing by. Despite his pensiveness, he did not miss a step. The distortions that had led his mine in to a state of obscurity permitted Ezralaya's tales of yore to resurface within his mind. The parable of Heloisa had tugged at his perception, whilst an odd familiarity simmered in his stomach.

At first, the idea of falling in love with oneself had sounded absurd and nonsensical, and yet an afterthought of Cersei had amalgamated the illogicalities together in a way that stimulated recognition.

_Did I fall in love with myself? _ The notion filled him with a sickening dread, his mind writhed with a reluctance to contemplate.

At birth, he and Cersei had been identical, and things had remained that way for the first few years of their life, seen as both possessed the inherent Lannister characteristics of well-defined cheekbones, emerald eyes and blonde hair. It wasn't until Cersei began to grow her hair long, and take on a womanly form, that people were able to distinguish them. The older they got the more they differed. However, still to the day, they resembled one another, far more than any other filial relations.

Jaime knew he emitted an arrogance that others despised, even in his youth he'd possessed a swagger of which men had scoffed at, yet only to proceed to imitate. Men hated him just as much as they desired to be him. Women adored, where men obeyed.

Jaime, however had never dwelled on his airs, he'd let the world do that for him. It was his abilities as a fighter that he admired the most about himself, _I still have the spirit, if not the capability_.

Failing to acquire an answer, his thoughts were led elsewhere into contemplations much more cutting; _does that mean Cersei is Heloisa? Did she fall in love with the part of herself that she saw in me? _

The theory was caustic to his inners, corroding any sentiment for his sister into mordant acid. Jaime knew he was vain, but not so vain as to fall in love with himself, Cersei on the other hand was much more prone to such extremes.

The culmination of the dance was impending, and Jaime forced his mind into cognizance. His attentions fixed wholly unto Ezralaya, who swirled into his body and nestled tightly until the beat of retrieval had her twizzling away. His heart thumped.

The partners then exchanged, and he found himself with Elinor Tyrell, whilst Ezralaya partnered Alyn. Elinor smiled politely to him and danced around him pleasantly, but he could not help longing for Ezralaya to return to his side. He was no dancer, and felt simply inadequate without here. Thankfully, a few side steps, in steps, twirls, whirls, gyrates and pirouettes, Ezralaya twizzled back to him like she was afloat of air.

The lift had escaped his conscience, and by the time he'd realized it was already upon him. It was only a small lift, in order to swap the sides of their stance, none the less it was daunting. He wasn't even sure if he'd be able to lift her with his golden had, but he ventured to try anyway.

She offered a little jump, and he managed to get a grasp of her tiny waist between his clutches. Thankfully, Ezralaya shifted her weight onto his left side, so that she was only balanced upon his adjunction, meaning the transfer was easy and neatly done. _Like dove with air in her wings _he thought, as he watch her above him.

Her feet met the floor, and after one final whirl, the music concluded and applause succeeded. He was breathless, as so was she. The close proximity of which the dance's formation had led them to, had only enhanced his intake of shallow breaths.

He wondered if her own shortage of air was for the same reason as him, or whether hers was just out of exertion. She smiled, his eyes inadvertently glanced down to her mouth and he noticed how her bottom lip glistened with moisture. His eyes looked back up to her own, though he couldn't resist the urge to look again and so he let his eyes flick down. When he looked back up, her own eyes had also drifted downward, only to meander back up to his waiting gaze.

The applause of the guests was lapsed by the sound of a spear butt hitting the floor in commanding blunted thuds. Every sound within the Small Hall dwindled to a silence, every motion to a still.

"Your attention." His sister voice clawed at his perception him like nails. He heard her but he could not see her. It was only when he saw the craned necks of those around him that he saw her, stood supremely above them all upon the upper circle, Tommen by her side.

Cersei smiled placidly once she had command of the commonalities. "Thank you." She beamed, deceptively. He voice remained thick with authority. "If you will, I'd like everyone to accompany me outside in the small court yard." She swayed her hand to the outlet whilst her eyes bore directly down onto Jaime beneath her, he did not yield, but simply held her glower.

"A show awaits." A sinister element that only Jaime seemed able to perceive was present in every word she'd uttered. _She thinks she's going to smoke out Tyrion, except all she'll be left with is rats and rubble.  
><em>

The whole populace of the Court began to scrabble and scurry in an attempt to be the first ones out of the door. Some hurried so fast you'd have thought their hearts desires were awaiting them, _nope, just a really big fire. _The door was rammed with people, pushing and shoving, trying to squeeze through the tightest of gaps to beat the masses.

Jaime and Ezralaya stared on bewilderment watching the disarray ensued, as all others had darted away to contend for departure.

"Do you know what it is?" Ezralaya turned to Jaime as he stared on wincingly at the rabble engulfed by avarice, which had subsequently led to them into chaos.

_It's the way of the world, _Jaime reflected, _everyone wants riches and we'll all trample on each other, until we're all trodden down into the mud, with no one to help us up. The gods having nothing to do with a man's downfall. Man ruins man. That's if he doesn't destroy himself first. – My white cloak destroyed me. _His latter notion made his heart ache dully.

"No." Jaime lied. Her eyes harbored a curiosity; "Do you want to go and see? – I know another way out." His supplement swayed her.

"Come on then." He spoke, unintentionally reaching out to hold her hand. Before he'd registered what he'd done, they we're already halfway up the back stairs leading to the upper gallery, her towing behind.

Once upon the higher level, he led them through a door, and into a long corridor, no doubt the same way Cersei had gone to escape the horde. The dimly lit corridor was wide enough for them to walk side by side, which they did, however their hands did not detach.

"I still expect my tour of the White Sword Tower, offering me a hand to dance shall not excuse you." He smiled down at her from where she looked up.

"Of course." He assured, turning them down a flight of stairs, and then on through a door which opened up into one of the more familiar passageways of Maegor's Holdfast.

"I'll show you tomorrow if you wish?"

She nodded, eagerly. "I do. Though I am having breakfast with Lady-Queen Margery in the morning, and venturing into Flea bottom in the afternoon to see the conditions, but in the evening I am all yours." Her words were alluring, but in a way that could be excused as teasing.

"The evening it is." He smiled, as they paced on forward.

The shades of the night had turned the beige marble into a mosaic of monochrome. The iron sconces, lay upon the wall with a burning candle, throwing off flickers of light and creating a chasm of eerie shadows. Jaime and Ezralaya scurried through the empty darkness, like thieves of the night. It wasn't until they arrived at the foremost courtyard that they heard the vague noise of amassing people, stood before the Tower of The Hand in its last few moment's eminence.

They had come to a transitory halt as Ezralaya took a moment to embrace her surroundings, observing and relishing in the feel of the darkness sheathing her. Her head tipped back to observe the stars above.

"Aren't they beautiful?" she sighed in awe. His eyes glanced up into the dark sky above, to him there was nothing wondrous about the night time sky, it was like any other. Though she seemed entranced by all that floated above. Swollen by darkness, the sky was completely vacant of clouds, only a thin veil of midnight swathed Westeros. The sky was speckled by minute diamonds, twinkling in the moons artificial light.

Jaime looked back down at Ezralaya whose skin bathed in the milk of moonlight _she puts even the stars to shame._

Her head fell forward, and she giggled in delight, her eyes glowed, having seemingly absorbed the trifling light of the hours of darkness.

Two knight's stood guarding the entry to Maegor's Holdfast. A large door, with sturdy wood panels, lined by strips of steel, and strengthened by bolts of Iron. The men saw Jaime approaching, and instantly moved to unbolt the ingress, sliding the locks of open and uplifting the large wooden blockade that fell across the width as reinforcement. They passed on through, with no words spoken, however the burly knight who'd stood on the left, with a thick beard that over-spilled his helmet had looked at his and Ezralaya's company rather peculiarly.

Together they crossed over the drawbridge, spikes of iron laying abed beneath, wandering on ahead in the direction of the large edifice that was no more than a few minutes away from demolishment.  
>When they arrived, the rest of the wedding guests were still filtering on through, sharing quizzical glances with one another, bemused as to why they were stood before the Tower. He heard a few complaints of boredom, a few grumbles about the coldness and the odd protest to remain standing. Though the third was mostly the woman who'd previously complained about being cold.<p>

As they headed closer, Jaime saw Cersei stood over on the opposite side, Tommen and Margery to her left, Osmund Kettleblack to her right. He could see him with her, as clearly as she could see Ezralaya stood beside him. He felt an odd notion of triumph pass through him. He was glad she could see him with Ezralaya, he wanted her too. He wanted to madden her with fury.

With no warning at all, the wildfire dashed up the tower like a rabid beast, a fiery whoosh propelled it to the top. The gasp of a hundred or more resounded in the stillness. The green flames licked at the bricks with a tongue of lime, devouring and consuming every inch. The blazes grew strong and more ferocious, with powerful surges of flame encircling the large barbican.

The bricks creaked and weaned, as though the monstrosity was crying out in agony, the wooden panels and door were slowly sweltering and withering into charred cinders. A pain of glass smashed in torridity, and the screams of the imprudent rebounded through the air in piercing shrills as the glass tumbled down in fiery shards and fragments, falling to the ground beneath. He turned to his right, where Ezralaya stood glazing up in trepidation at the burning chaos that loomed above them, in what looked like a candle of the Gods.

Her eyes glimmered with the reflection of the flames which were crawling higher and higher, up to the turrets. She turned slowly to look at him, and for once he did not recoil trying to pretend that he had not seen her. He held her gaze assuredly, whilst a languorous smile curled her lips. She reached down between them, and latched onto his hand, allowing her fingers to interlock with his own.

Jaime stared on ahead as smoke began to rise. The tower was corroding from the inside out, the sound of crackling wood and decomposing walls began to resonate. He shuddered when the first ceiling had caved in, as dust and grime were spat into the air, proceeding to tumble down upon them all like a baleful blizzard of ash.

The flames, after having secured domination over the helpless bricks, began to throw off an unworldly level of heat, the crowd beneath manoeuvring numerous paces back, to shield themselves from the blistering conflagration.  
>Jaime looked across the crowd and over to his sister, with her head idled upon the broad shoulders of Osney Kettleblack. Belched by a discoloration of green, her eyes were enraptured by the flames, staring dreamingly into the colossal blaze. Her intensity outwardly bordered on the endeavours of the insane.<p>

The world of the Red Keep stood in a silent trance, as the flames hypnotized any who looked upon it.  
>Eventually, once the smoke became thick and stifling the crowds began to disperse, and the inner courtyard began to clear, leaving Cersei and Osney in solitary by the light of the candle.<p>

_This is the light of the Crone _he'd heard some faceless person decree, _this is not the light of the Crone, this is the light of madness. And it is slowly devouring us all.  
><em>

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><p>Thank you for reading! You know what to do….:)<p> 


	5. A Little Daliance

**A/N: **Forgive me. I am so sorry this took so long to get done. I've had a ridiculous amount of course work to get done and just haven't had the time to write. Anyway this is a really long chapter so I hope I shall atone.  
>I doubt the next chapter will be as long, so hopefully it'll be up sooner. However I doubt I'll update until I reach or am nearing 30 reviews. It always so lovely to hear your thoughts, and I do work hard at my stories, so it always encouraging to receive feedback.<br>Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

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><p><span>Ezralaya<span>

Olenna Tyrell was the sort of woman that Ezralaya discreetly admired, and in a very odd way hoped she'd mature to be like if she was lucky enough to live as long. Her quick wit and sharp tongue made her as prickly as her sobriquet, and yet her wicked humour chortled Ezralaya more than she'd liked to openly admit. Her dry drollness and candid remarks were all making for a very controversial breakfast.

She sliced at her roasted mushrooms, topped by garlic, with her age speckled hands. "So, tell me child, what are you intentions?" Olenna always spoke frankly, pointing her eating utensil at Ezralaya.

Ezralaya quickly swallowed a mouthful of bacon before proceeding to speak. "My intentions?" her voiced faltered as in her haste to speak, she'd attempted to swallow her food down too soon, leaving her throat feeling scratched and tapered.

She reached forward to retrieve her bronze cup, and took a dainty sip of lemon water to ease the discomfort. She pressed her hand to her chest as the ball of dense food journeyed down her narrow windpipe.

"Yes, yes your intentions." Olenna Tyrell affirmed.

When Margery had invited Ezralaya to breakfast she had assumed that she'd meant to have breakfast with her and her cousins. Though that had turned out not to be the case, as the pavilion atop the Maiden Vault had been bedecked with two tables; One for all of the Tyrell cousins, and then one for Ezralaya, Olenna Tyrell, and her granddaughter; Queen Margery. Theodora and Briar had attended the breakfast with her, however they had been fortunately seated next to Margery's Ladies.

"To help the poor, to build orphanages and bathhouses, to offer charity and alms. To preserve the destitute."

"Yes, yes that's all very well and good." Olenna flapped her hands about flippantly, wafting away the notions of what to her must have seemed like false pretences. "But what are your intentions…." She probed further with an inquisitive gaze, though Ezralaya had nothing more to offer. Her intentions truly were of the kindest type, with no hidden agenda of self-enhancement.

Olenna's idiosyncratic wittiness had a way of turning rancid when it became solely aimed in one direction.

"I don't know what you mean." She replied honestly with an uneasy laugh under her breath. Olenna's pointed features tapered further, as if trying to look beyond the threshold of skin and down into her lowly soul.

Margery spoke up softly, placing a tender hand upon Olenna's wizened arm; "Grandma, we must not pry. My dear friend shall think I have lured her into an interrogation, when I only invited her to breakfast."

Olenna huffed lightly under her breath. "I suppose." She resolved, but her eyes remained intrusive. "You're a very, very beautiful girl." Olenna's compliments had an odd way of sounding hollow or as though she was making a stealthy insinuation. Nonetheless Ezralaya smiled appreciatively.

She felt the warm morning's breeze sift through her hair, uplifting it off her shoulders. The morning was a delightful one, with white sunshine, cloudless celestial skies, and a comforting warmth that ebbed and flowed within the airstream. The pavilion was built of sandstone, framed by rockeries and the flowerings of pink blooms. Vast canopies, embroidered with the golden rose of High Garden shielded them from the intensity of the eager sun's rays. In the distance yonder, the Black Water simmered in the heat, crashing again the rocks in wades of white froth. Ezralaya had opted for a murky pink gown with lightly puffed sleeves made of meshy gossamer, tightening at her wrists to add buoyancy. The bodice of the gown was cut down into a V, with a simple string of the material tying the two sections together. Rings of simple bands of gold were placed upon her fingers. Whilst a headpiece of interweaving and dangling chains was placed upon her head. Her hair hung down her back, the front pulled back into a think plait which ran in accordance to her spine.

Her attire had seemed a fitting choice for what she had assumed would be a light-hearted morning of giggles and chitchat. Though now she'd wish she'd worn thicker garments; such as armour of velvet, chainmail of lace and a breastplate made out of coarse wool, all to protect herself from Olenna's curiosity.

"Do you know where it is you get your beauty from?" Olenna queried with just enough genuine interest to diminish any trace of nosiness.

"No." she answered unfailingly, the response had almost become an innate verbal reflex. She need not even think it through, it was more like an instantaneous defence mechanism in which her throat muscles formed the words, even before she'd attained comprehension of the question.

"I have never known. A mere orphan." Margery reached forward, placing a soft comforting palm to her hand, offering a loving smile.

"So who was it that raised you?" Olenna probed further, almost as though she didn't believe Ezralaya's telling's, and so she remained unabashed by the latter ploy to attain sympathy thus cease the talk of delicate matters. But no, The Queen of Thorns was incessant.

"Grandma!" Margery exclaimed lightly at her Grandmothers notably lack of empathy.

"I am only asking." Olenna maintained, pursing her thinned lips in nonchalance.

Ezralaya spoke up, hoping one final truth would conclude her examination, and neaten the frayed edges of their serrated conversing; "A woman named Roseney Cosalario raised me, she was my mother."

"And who was she?" Olenna continued, delving down deeper much to Ezralaya's incredulity.

Most people tended to shy away from Ezralaya's past, too proud or too bashful to discuss the notable themes of her condensed past.

With averted eyes or ruddy cheeks some had dared questioned her life's strives and endeavors, though few had the nerve, and if any were so bold then they tended not to worm their way down the route of her upbringing, as far more lurid tales were situated in her later years, in which utter desperation had led her into a dishonorable life. As disreputable, scandalous tales were the ones the world enjoyed the most, since immoral anecdotes and unthinkable thoughts always made the world titillate with immoral intrigue.

"A Septa from Dorne." Ezralaya answered truthfully, feeling an ethereal wall of self-preservation assemble around her, Olenna's questions were becoming far too personal and likely to end in a refusal to answer, or a lie. Ezralaya had spun the thread of her past so many times she had come to be able to weave an impeccable yarn, however too many questions had the ability to entangle the delicate thread and form a knot. Making her tongue tied and more susceptible to blunders. All of which would paint the picture of a fabricator. Ezralaya had told no lies to Olenna Tyrell, but she knew, if the pace of Olenna's questions continued at such a staunch rate then a lie would presumably ensue. _Sometimes lies truly are better than the truth. _

"A Septa?" Olenna's eyes widened, and Ezralaya nodded in confirmation. "Dorne?" Olenna then echoed skeptically. "You were born in Dorne?"

Ezralaya's posture had gone stiff, almost unmoving, aside from her lower facial feature, of which rigid words out-stemmed; "No, _Roseney _was born in Dorne."

"And you?" Olenna's eyes wandered with curiosity, searching for the truth.

"I was raised on the Isle of Salazay." _Though I was not born there, _she kept her afterthought to herself. Olenna did not need to know that negligible inaccuracy. Imprecision was necessary when actuality could be constructed from simple words of the truth.

"Salazay?" Her voice was abound with unanswered questions and newly fostered wonders. "Where is that?"

"A few leagues off the Island City of Elyria – on a clear day, from the tallest point, Elyria can be seen in the far distance." It felt nice to converse with facts. "It's near the Valyrian peninsula in Slaver's Bay. Salazay is so small that men seldom illustrate it upon the maps."

Olenna humphed, her right brow quirking in protracted reservation.

"And so how is you came to such a small Isle, yet have no clue of your parentage?" Olenna Tyrell was truly picking and clawing at the rectified scars of her past.

The figurative wounds, though some literal, had taken many moon turns to heal, and even then, such deep cuts could only ever scar over. Her yesteryears still caused a dull ache to grieve her heart in contemplation, and Olenna seemed to have no consideration to that when poking and prodding at tender welts.

Thankfully, Margery's melodical voice appealed to her Grandmothers better nature; "Grandma, you are making her uncomfortable." Her voice cherished an imploring sweetness.

"I am curious." Olenna droned tenaciously, looking to Margery, though her eyes quickly flickered back to Ezralaya; "Forgive my discourtesy, but for a girl of such _low birth, _you had indeed scaled and clambered from the bottommost depths, up to a very high standing. So much so that my Granddaughter, the Queen, has seen fit to befriend you. And I just wonder why." Olenna took a moment to align her thoughts.

"I assure you, I bear no hate toward you. In fact I admire you, far more than most – but I cannot fathom you, and that makes me anxious, both for myself and for my darling granddaughter. I leave on the morrow and I want to ensure she is left in good stead" Her bony, time-withered hand swayed to her left to rest atop of Margery's.

Ezralaya was unsure of how to assimilate Olenna's words. Her motherly protection of her granddaughter against someone with a notorious past was understandable. But it was Olenna's underlying insinuations of conspiracy and threat that were very unsettling to hear. Ezralaya did not have a bad bone in her body, even the marrow was the essence of goodness and so to have her whole character questioned came as an almighty blow.

"What are you alluding to My Lady?" Ezralaya questioned coldly. Trying to distance herself from what had been said.

"Nothing." Olenna spoke dismissively, as if brushing the notion away with her fingertips. "I like you a lot. I just wish I knew more about you." Ezralaya nodded, understandingly, but offered no more. "Are you truly here out of kindness?" Olenna left forward. In truth, she had kind eyes, one's of which would no doubt offer solace in times of discord.

"I am." Ezralaya all but vowed in her affirmation. "I promise you. I bear nothing but friendship and love to her Grace." Ezralaya caught Margery smiling sweetly in the corner of her eye.

"And I to you." She responded, reaching forward as she often did to squeeze Ezralaya's hand comfortingly.

"My Granddaughter is in the most precarious of situations as you can imagine. I can never been too careful."

"I understand." Ezralaya continued. "Truly I do." She added once hearing herself back and hearkening the sound of hesitance. "Many foes linger, though I am not one. I came to the Red Keep by a King's invitation. I made no announcement of my coming, if I had not been summoned I would not be sat before you now, thus my intentions revolve solely around the conditions of the city and all that I can do to ease their hardship. A war wages on, and it is not the fault of the indigents, so why must they suffer for the calamities of their betters?"

"Wisely spoken." Olenna praised, with a commending nod and the expression of approval. "I believe you child, I see now your heart is full of goodness." Ezralaya half-smiled, her eyes fluttering downward modestly. Ezralaya presumed that Olenna Tyrell's approval was hard to come by, seen as she spoke fondly of few.

"However there is one final matter I wish to discuss with you, then I shall pry no more…." Ezralaya's heart sunk as Olenna's hindered query resounded.

"Very well." she straightened her posture, readying herself to try and rectify Olenna's final doubt.

"Thrice or more, I have seen you cavorting about with the Lord Commander…." Olenna said no more as her mien silently offered up the topic for Ezralaya's explanation.

Ezralaya's throat tightened as though guilt was seizing her. _I have nothing to feel guilty about _Ezralaya told herself sternly as she had numerous times before. Yet still she felt culpable.

Ezralaya opened her mouth in the hope that an explanation would tumble out, alas she was not so fortunate, as no justification reverberated from inside, and so silence lingered on between the triad.

Margery once again came to her aid; "There is no harm in that Grandma." She spoke earnestly, adding; "Surely?" doubting her own contention.

"He's a man with a famous name and a notorious reputation" Ezralaya nodded in agreement, well aware of Jaime's repute from the outset of their unlikely union.

"Jaime has been very kind to me." Ezralaya spoke up, sounding almost feeble in her validations, knowing that Olenna would always be able to gainsay her lines of reasoning.

"_Jaime _is it?" she spoke risibly aghast, but for once her mocking humour had fallen flat upon her ears. "You are on first name terms then?" her tone verged on condescension. A nervous dread encased Ezralaya, she had never been interrogated in such a blatant fashion.  
>"Well – yes we are." Ezralaya finally admitted, feeling conscious of everything and everyone around her, even of her own demeanour.<p>

"Is there something wrong with that?" being submitted under Olenna Tyrell's interrogation was like being assailed continually by hail pellets, with no chance of reprieve until the passing of the gale.

"I have never feigned fondness for Tywin Lannister's golden twins, though out of the two, admittedly Ser Jaime is the fairer one. Nonetheless, he is made of the same fabric as his royal sister and worships her like a deity. A chiselled feline face does not compensate for the Lannister blood that runs through his veins, and is replete with cunning and deceit. He no less a lion that those before him, hungry for gold and power, all of which you have. Be wary child." _These are words of caution _Ezralaya quickly realized, despite that they undoubtedly slandered Jaime.

"I am always vigilant in choosing those I befriend. My conversing with him was not commenced in flippancy, but with due caution. Everyone in the Red Keep has deeds they would rather keep disclosed, I myself included. We all have a tale, we all have sins, though some are more fortunate to allow theirs to remain a secret."

"Do you truly, _truly_ believe his companionship is done out of kindness though? And not just for the perseverance of his House through this damable war?" Ezralaya had never once doubted Jaime's intentions, she'd never felt the need to. He'd never even mentioned the topics of wealth and war, or allegiance and fealty.

_Maybe kindness is the key, a weapon that would go unsuspected. Am I doubting him? _She asked herself. It was Olenna Tyrell's quandaries that had led her down the path of suspicion.

Before Ezralaya had time to come to Jaime's defence, Olenna had already started hypothesizing once again.

"Perhaps he wishes to make his sister jealous? The air is always ripe with speculation about their _unnatural _closeness, have you heard those awful rumors child?"

_Hasn't everyone? _It was an odd thought to sit and ponder before spectators, so depraved and debauched. Ezralaya had heard the rumors, firstly from a few whispers in Braavos, and then from the hearty bellows of the sailors from Saltpan's who had voiced their distaste of the Lannister's for all to hear_. Its slander_ she reaffirmed to herself, _malign ignorance_.

Troublingly, the notion of him trying to make his sister jealous at her expense, hurt more to think about than the immoral deed itself.

"Surly the adversary Houses shall say anything to weaken King Tommen's claim to the throne, you don't want people believing such things about your Granddaughter's husband, do you?"

"Of course I don't, I am merely speculating child to show you that Jaime Lannister is not to be undermined by any means. His claws can just as easily rip out your heart as any wild beast." Ezralaya glared back at Olenna wordlessly.

She had caused her to reevaluate everything she thought she knew about Jaime, and that had put her mind ill at ease. Her Ladies disliked Jaime, her guards, her attendants, and now Olenna Tyrell had all but directly spoken those same words. Vibrations of trepidation tingled up and down her arms, spreading into her shoulders and making her internally shiver.

_Please Jaime, do not betray me, _she beseeched from afar, imploring him wherever he may be, _do not betray me to your mirth. _Her heart clenched.

"Do you know the Lannister song?" Olenna asked, seen as the silence persisted and Ezralaya showed no signs of re-joining. Her eyes remained cast low.

She looked up slowly; "The one about the rain?" her voice resonated thinly. She jerked the core of her throat back into volumes with a slight cough. Olenna nodded. "I'm sure I'd know the tune if I heard it." Ezralaya continued, feeling dull-witted that she was unable to expand her minimal knowledge any further.

"Do you know what it's about?" Olenna prompted, occasioning Ezralaya to shake her head unknowingly. "Margery why don't you tell her." Margery hesitated, her face saddening. "Well she may as well know the origins of the song, her ears will be bleeding by the time of her departure seen as she'll have heard it so much."

Margery exhaled, her resolution waning against her Grandmothers tenacity; "House Reyne, The red lion, rebelled against their Liege Lord, Tytos Lannister, the golden lion. And it fell to his son Tywin to restore dominance. A long story short, House Reyne was utterly obliterated, every member slain. House Reyne is no more. And so the song is used to….immortalize Tywin Lannister's _finest deed – _The war of the lions_." _

Margery's discomfort of the matter was flagrant, she preferred to talk about sweet summer days, lemon cakes, and the scent of orchids, not tales of slaughter and human atrocity. "It's a play on words you see; as 'now the rains'" the fingers on her right hand wriggled up and down, simulating the tumbling motions of raindrops. "Fall over the empty halls of the House Reyne, and as they are all dead; there's 'not a soul to hear.'"

Ezralaya felt icy fingers caress her back as she mused over the integral meaning of the song, envisaging the butchery within her mind.

"It comes as an ominous warning to us all." Olenna preached, in a contemplative sigh of lamentation. "If the Lannister's could do that to the mighty House Reyne, then just think what they could do to some little rich girl, with no army, only a few household guards. Dear me they'd claw you and your pretty little damsels into shreds."

"And why would they do that – I am not their enemy, I am no one's enemy." Ezralaya queried, masking her fear with misperception.

"Exactly." She exclaimed sharply with a pointed finger, her hand then proceeded to smack down onto the table. For such an age-shriveled little woman, the clout she served the table caused all of the bullion and cutlery to rattle and tremble in metallic ditties of fear.

"Anyone who is on a side that's not theirs, or anyone who's not on a side at all, is their enemy. Little love exists between the Lannister's and Tyrell's only that of a child's matrimony, which is all that keep us as allies" considering the matters they spoke of were tantamount to being subversive, Olenna show no attempts to try and quell the volume of her voice. If fact she spoke as though they were merely debating over which types of cheese were most well suited to which type of wine.

"You have the wealth to buy armies, ships, supplies and weapons. Whatever side you declare for, shall most likely win this war."

"And what makes you think I would just hand over all of my wealth, all of gold, everything that I have worked and suffered so hard to attain, to some House from another Land?"

Olenna tittered softly to herself, her fingers interlocking into a tightly compressed nest of bony fingers, speckled by brown stains of age. "Oh child…." Again she laughed lightly under her breath, which was quickly becoming infuriating to Ezralaya, _Is she laughing at me? _She scowled hard at the notion.

"The moment you entered the Throne Room you began to play the Game." Ezralaya scowls of annoyance turned into winces of confusion.

"What game?" Ezralaya questioned warily.

"Why, the Game of Thrones child." Olenna spoke under a wistful breath. "And I fear that your better nature prevents you from seeing that you are merely being groomed and primed by the Kingslayer in command of the Queen, all for your part in this monstrosity."

Ezralaya took a moment to collect her thoughts and realign them back into a fathomable formation. "My Lady, you don't become the richest woman in the Known World by dumb-luck. I may be young but I am not blind to schemes and deceits. I know how the world works, and I know that Jaime Lannister would not submit me to the peril of his sister."

She spoke so emphatically that she _almost_ believed herself. _He wouldn't, he wouldn't, he wouldn't, _she chanted over and over again, _he would not do that to me.  
><em>

"He's the Kingslayer." Olenna emphasized stringently, with narrowed, importunate eyes.

Ezralaya stared back indifferently, with a glacial poise; "And I am the Whore of the Realm, so I suppose we are both alike in dignity."

A silence ensued as Olenna was left at a loss for words, visibly bowled over. Her eyes wandered aimlessly and her lip twitched with the urge to speak but nothing to say.

After a moment of tense silence, aside from giggling's of the Tyrell cousins at the nearby table, Margery spoke up, her proposition deflected to Ezralaya's; "Shall we go for a walk my friend, work off our breakfast?"

Ezralaya smiled, relived.

"I would like that very much." She assented.

"May you excuse us Grandmother?" Margery asked, despite being the Queen and not needing permission.

The elderly woman voice re-arose. "Of course my dear." Margery held her hand out to her grandmother as she rose, and Olenna's wilted, pruned lips pucker into a kiss, which she placed upon her knuckle. Both girls went to take their leave, but Olenna's hoary voice had them halting.

"Child." Ezralaya turned, knowing the words had been directed to her. "I believe you shall be a true friend to my Granddaughter." Ezralaya mellowed.

"I will. I promise you that. You can go back to High Garden knowing your Granddaughter has at least one true friend in the Crownlands." Olenna smiled thinly, pacified and content to let them progress on forward.

Together, Margery and Ezralaya strolled around the plush gardens of the Maiden's Vault, arm in arm. They treaded along the white stony path under the blue sky, streaked by a few wisps of cottony cloud. They passed the blooming shrubberies and the blossoming berry bushes, and then progressed under beiges arches enwrapped by spindly vines and down some marble steps, coated with a layer of mosaic comprised of minerals and gemstones.

They then entered into the main courtyard, which gleamed in the day's magnificence. The area was like a suntrap, a basin of sunshine gleaming in radiance.

A large fountain made of carved crème stone was wilted and sculpted to precision. It stood as the center piece, a naked cherub stood atop. The water glisten crisply by the light of the sun, twinkling like a million twirling crystals as the water dispersed out of the cherubs hand and proceeded to tumble down, disturbing the limpid water beneath in the bowl of the fountain. Pale pink lily-pads with vivid yellow centers, contently floated on the water's surface, swaying by the ever moving motions of the cascading water.

Thick bushes of vibrant green enclosed the courtyard, whilst profuse flowering shrubs looked elegant with their vibrant blooms and buds of cerise and violet, in which plump bumblebee's suckled upon the nectar. Pebbles of grey and freckled granite were scattered in perfect accordance with the path, distinguishing a pronounced line between the footpath and foliage. A butterfly with scarlet wings fluttered out before them, capering in the air with twirls and dives, before flying off high into the sky, and becoming a mere speck in comparison to the vast sky above.

In the distance Ezralaya could see the abating smoke rising from the ruins that had once been the Tower of the Hand. Though now it was just a hot pile of blackened bricks and charred wood, incrusted by a thick layer of charcoal and dust, with pieces of burning ash floating in the air. The early morning sun had turned the shattered shards of the glass from the windows into a stratum of fiery diamonds, gleaming with a golden hue. _Sometimes the most beautiful things are the most deadly _Ezralaya thought, ruminating over the moment she had gone down to see the remains from the chaos of the night before, and witnessed how sharp and jagged the fragments were, enough to rupture a man's foot to a bloody ruin. The whole ordeal had seemed a very odd way to culminate a wedding.

Ezralaya understood why the Tower had been diminished, but the whole event had been made into a grand public spectacle, so much so that all the noble Lords and Ladies of the South had been coerced into witnessing it. Nonetheless, Ezralaya was glad she had been there to behold it, and even gladder that she'd had Jaime by her side, holding her hand, as they watched the green flames devour a Tower that had once stood so prodigious.

Margery's arm tighten against her own, drawing her in; "I pray you'll forgive my Grandmothers. Her words are spoken from a well-meaning heart I assure you."

"I understand." Ezralaya strained to smile.

Olenna's inquires had seemed to delve far deeper into Ezralaya privacy for her own recreation, rather than for the benefit of her Granddaughter. Even so, Ezralaya partially understood why, The Red Keep was full of sly snakes and spiders weaving a web of conspiracies and ploys.

"How come she is leaving on the morrow?"

Margery shrugged unknowingly; "I'm not entirely sure, she did not say. I assume she misses High Garden, though I also believe that the Queen is not fond of her either – even so I think she is content to return to the Reach. High Garden is the home of chivalry, so much more becoming than Kings Landing."

Ezralaya transitorily wondered why she had not made High Garden her destination, though a swift recollection of the poverty-stricken that she had seen in Flea Bottom upon her arrival reminded her of her duties and obligation to humankind alike.

"I hope we may go there together some day, in the distant future, once I am _truly _Queen." her voice dipped cautiously low, wary of those around her. The vicinity in which they strolled was reflectively scarce of people aside Margery and Ezralaya, and the two Tyrell's guards who shadowed behind their every step.

"It's so wonderful. There are fields of golden roses that stretch as far as the eye can see. With fruit gardens abundant with crabb-apples, sweet peaches, and fireplums. I swear it was once the Land of the Gods. High Garden is a little piece of heaven." Her words sounded so wonderful, that Ezralaya suddenly longed to experience all that she had so enchantingly spoken of.

"I know my Grandmother shall miss me, and her nieces, though she shall not miss this…" her arm that was not linked with Ezralaya's flailed out at a loss for words; "….this prison." Prison was not the word she had expected Margery to use. For her a girl who appeared so happy and jovial, it was peculiar to believe that she felt trapped and ensnared, like a prisoner within what was supposed to be her home. Evidently she trusted the guards who followed them, seen as she felt comfortable to speak so openly.

A contented silence passed between them, as they turned off and headed into the warren of hedge rows towering high like blockades. Petite azaleas lined the base of the hedgerows, slightly browned due to a lack of sunshine. The innocent chirpings of birds and the sound of insects scuttling through the greeneries, as well as the heavy armored steps of the guards behind them, sounded into the air.

"You know, for what it's worth…." Her eyes twinkled with a playfulness, a mischievous grin pulling at her cheeks; "I think Jaime Lannister is utterly smitten with you." Ezralaya's brow furrowed deeply with thick troughs of perplexity.

"Smitten?" Ezralaya chortled doubtingly, and yet Margery remained resilient with her eye brows raised into perfectly sketched arches, which insinuated otherwise.

"Smitten indeed." She maintained.

"Nonsense." She laughed aloud incredulously. However her laugh of skepticism, had stemmed from the need to conceal her trepidation. As much as the notion made her giddy and lightheaded with delight, it also made her feel bilious with fear. _He's a Lion _

Olenna's forewarnings were still chiming loud and clear within the cavernous chambers of her mind; p_erhaps he wishes to make his sister jealous? Perhaps he's grooming me for his sister? Perhaps I am being inveigled into playing the Game? _She sighed forlornly; _perhaps I truly am a fool who fell for a Knight's flattery.  
><em>

"With the God's as my witnesses, I swear my words were spoken true." Margery glanced up to the vast sky above, gazing up into the yellow sunshine and opening her heart for the god's to appraise her.  
>"Well may the Father judge you justly." She spoke the words in a mocking custom, however Margery had not perceived her palpable evocation of sardonicism.<p>

Her lips pressed together in a gentle hint of a smile; "I have been at the Red Keep a fair amount of time now, and not once in my duration have I ever seen The Lord Commander dance."

"So?" Ezralaya's shoulder raised and lowered swiftly, remaining dubious.

"So. You are the first." Magarey spoke eagerly, as though she was trying to instil excitement. Except Ezralaya could still hear Olenna Tyrell in the back of her mind, wittering and condescending in disapproval, offering unwanted counsels. Her words stung like a pin-prick to the heart and came as a pounding to her soul.

"Your Grandmothers urgings….." her retort dwindled into taciturnity whilst Margery's flourished into emphatic refutes.

"My Grandmother loves to cogitate whenever traces of scandal surface." Margery smiled reassuringly, wisely professing; "Take every word my Grandmother speaks with a pinch of salt – or perhaps sugar, to make everything a little sweeter" Margery giggled lightly at her own admission.

"But truly though." Margery compelled them to a standstill, the two guards behind came to a scuffing halt. "I saw the way he looked at you." Her hands had reached forward, and tentatively stroked with deft fingertips the meshy tulle like fabric that made up her sleeves.

"The way he gazed at you whilst you were dancing, he was in awe of your beauty and aura." Ezralaya fought the urge to scoff seen as Margery seemed so heartfelt and sincere.

"As lovely as that is…" her voice momentarily wavered. "Your Grandmother has reminded me of my duties, of the reasons why I came to Westeros. Not to pursue selfish desires of love and lust and covertness, but to help the poor and the lost children. And I fear my _friendship _with Ser Jaime was proving to be a distraction from my virtuous intentions." Margery sighed gently, almost as though she was disheartened.

The sunshine highlighted the warm golden stands amidst her soft brown hair, which tumbled down her shoulders in velvety waves. Her hazelnut doe eyes had saddened at Ezralaya's profession.

"And all that your Grandmother was saying about his house, his sister, his reputation…." Once again her voice dwindled, though once she'd fathomed her way through her knotted thoughts, she spoke again; "I don't want to get entangled with all of that messiness and then further ensnared into the anarchy of war – that is not my purpose. Beside I see how the Queen glowers at us, even if we share so much as a glance between one another – I do not want to find myself in the firing line of her wroth."

Ezralaya felt her shoulders heave, as an inadvertent sad sigh took her unawares. "I think it better the cut the ties of our acquaintance, I suppose I could tell him tonight." The concept pained her to foresee.

"How come?" Margery questioned.

"I'm seeing him tonight, he said he show me the White Sword Tower." They meandered on forward, in a swaying stroll. Margery's arm once again slipped under her own to keep them appended.

"Oh ask him to show you the dragons!" Margery beamed excitedly, as if she was the one going on the venture.

"Dragons?" her voice had sounded almost breathless in wonder.

"Well only the skeletons, but still, it's like looking upon the days of Old Valayria." _Oh how wonderful, _Ezralaya thought dreamily, envisaging the mighty ancient bones and timeworn carcasses.

"I shall indeed ask him." her whole body tingled at the thought of seeing him, however once she realized, she quickly ceased her frivolous notions by tensing her muscles rigid, jolting her body into reality.

_Stop it you silly girl, _She chided, _He's twice you age and devoted to his House, _further reproaching, _He's a knight, and you're a whore. _The last one hurt to admit.

All of a sudden, she felt a raring urge to change the direction of the conversation, fearful of where it may lead; "How do you plan to occupy this afternoon?" she spoke swiftly, her words in a hurry to be heard.

A sweet, pure smile tugged at Margery's lips; "I am spending it with my husband."

"Oh how lovely." Ezralaya beamed, touching her left palm to Margery's right shoulder as a commending gesture. "Just you and him?"

A bitter laugh, one that Margery seemed unlikely to emit, came sputtering from her mouth; "Oh no. We are never left alone. Not even for a second." Acrimony palpably lurked in her comment. "Either the Queen herself, my Ladies, Pycelle, Lady Taena etcetera shall be present….. We are never left alone." She reaffirmed in a portentous tone.

"Even on our wedding night we weren't! Ser Jaime was commanded to watch over us all night long – Tommen's only a child!" her voice was aghast when calling to mind the night that had just past. Ezralaya remained hesitant to speak as for she had no idea what she could say that would console.

"Maybe that's the reason." Ezralaya supposed, thankful that Margery seemed to content to listen a speculation. "Because he's so young, and so sacred, especially during these times of war, that all the more caution should be taken with him."

"I suppose." She breathed pensively. "Anyway…" she shuddered inwardly, trying to re-instill some vivacity back into herself. "What are you doing this afternoon?" she queried, as her known light-heartedness came back to her in a summoned hurry.

"My Ladies and I are going down into the city, to hand out alms to the poor and…."

Margery exclaimed aloud before she'd even finished, her passion was just as profound as Ezralaya's "Oh how wonderful!" again she pulled her in tightly, reveling in Ezralaya's own charitable nature. I_t's a rare oddity I suppose, in this world of avarice._

"We must do all that we can for them, for they are helpless and so, so wretched."

"I agree – my Ceryneian fruits shall be arriving from Salazay any day now to feed them sustainably. And I'd also love to commission orphanages and bathhouses for the people, if I am given consent by the King that is."

"Oh you most defiantly shall. I shall appeal to the King on your behalf, he too shares our bountiful natures. I know he'd do so much more if he could…" _Save his mother prohibits such pursuits, _she felt like finishing, but she held her tongue, unaware of who may be skulking within the shrubberies.

"That would be very wonderful of you." Margery smiled, as though she was bursting with pride.

"I know the world can be a better place. We can make it a better place." Ezralaya wanted to believe Margery, but she could only see naivety when she looked upon her aspect.

Ezralaya did all she could for the underprivileged, but it was by no means enough to change the world. Even when in Saltpan's she'd seen a glimpse of the war-ravaged North and met the northern men; wretched, desperate, and without hope. Ezralaya knew that it would take more than charity to put the world back to rights. The word _Justice _sprung to mind.

After a small luncheon of salmon, wrapped and stuffed with diced olives and goats cheese, Ezralaya and her Ladies, readied themselves to venture out into the city.

They shed their gowns of Qartheen silks and Myrish Lace, and did away with their jewels and headdresses, in place of tattered grey gowns, fashioned out of roughspun wool and frayed yarn. The gowns were ill-fitted, with a frontward bodice tied together by a strand of reedy cord. The mottled material chafed the skin raw and itched as though thousands of lice were embedded within the fibres, trying to nibble and claw their way free.

A cowl of russet burlap encircled around their shoulders and hung heavy to the ground, whilst the adjoining hood rested atop their heads. Their hair was interwoven into a simple three-stand plait, which remained concealed beneath the hood as it descended down, alongside their backbones.

A band of eight horses, saddled and ready, were stood awaiting them in the middle bailey. Ezralaya and her seven accompanying Ladies mounted onto the horses, and proceeded on through the raised portcullis and out into the city, which opened up before them like a rotting rose bud.

Five out of her six guards walked around her modest convoy, protecting them and lumbered with the extent of the alms. Finnalay Harstar had stayed behind at the Red Keep, with Lara Dallayny who remained behind to watch over the Moonsky twins. Lara of the purple harbor of Braavos, was Ezralaya's most recently appointed Lady, she had been working down at Ragman's Harbor; a dirtied, deprived area which welcomed all foreign ships, when Ezralaya her companions had stumbled across her.

Lara was an orphan, like nearly all of her Ladies, and had been employed by an elderly man, who paid her a copper a day to gut and debone the fish he caught, and then to sell them onto the disembarking ships. It was a sad sight to see, a girl so comely, covered by fish inners, smeared across her face and staining her hands red, whilst drenched by the reeking smell of rotten fish.

Something about her diligence had attracted Ezralaya to her, so much so, that she felt it fitting to offer Lara a place aboard her Swan Ship, on their voyage to the Western Land. Ezralaya had paid the fish monger off for his worker and then they had set off on their merry way.

Lilia and Lalia had desperately wanted to come out into the city, but Ezralaya dared not risk it. The young twins were like her children, _they might be the closest thing I ever come to having a child of my own, _and could not put them in jeopardy.

On her way into the city, she had seen the way the masses had glowered at the passing carriages with eyes teeming of abhorrence, and it was those memories that were making her all the more wary. The approval of the people was paramount, which was why Ezralaya had decided it would be best for them to all dress in rags and tatters, so not to stick out like sore thumbs and bring everyone together on an equal terrain.

Until the people of the city were deemed safe, and nonaggressive, Lilia and Lalia would not be venturing out of the walls of the Red Keep, and if the people turned out to be riotous and aggressive, then neither would Ezralaya or her Ladies.

Ezralaya understood that the inhabitants of Flea Bottom would only ever act out of desperation; they were not savages nor animals, they were people; desperate, starving people, with children to feed and the shadow of death lurking over them, but Ezralaya could not abide to sending her goodhearted Ladies out into the pits of peril, to be abused and battered by the gluttonous hands of starvation.

The horses meandered on forward at a steady pace, their hooves clinking melodically upon the ground.

The descent into depravity was no gradual decline. As within a matter of moments of leaving the Red Keep's walls, the conditions of their surroundings quickly began to deteriorate. No longer were they encompassed by the opulence of the King's castle, with its lavish chambers, gold wrought halls and white marble gardens, now they confronted the true ugly face of war and its appalling successive consequences. The further they pursued themselves into the heart of Flea Bottom, the more atrocious the conditions became.

All of the residents, even the children, looked haggard by age, grey faced and wrinkled. Their skin was so dehydrated that it looked like dappled, over-boiled leather, which had crinkled and crumpled in surrender to the heat.

The majority of the children's heads were shaved, except those who were obviously orphans and ran around unruly, naked and barefoot, with hair tumbling down to their ankles. The men likewise looked no better, with hairless heads, yet wayward beards.  
>Some of the paupers carried large pot bellies, either out of over indulgence or through the bloating of famishment. Whereas others looked no fatter than a strand of straw, with snappable arms sustained by brittle bones.<p>

Most sat in huddles, surrounding a pitfire, with some sort of vermin cooking atop the striving flames.

The ramshackle buildings were slowly collapsing, due to rot and decay, the structures which were supported by wooden slats, were decomposing due to the contamination of fungus, which was slowly eating away at the timbre. Windows were left void of glass in the walls, and most of the shanty houses didn't even have doors. Long, thick strips of dirtied cloth hung up in the air, tied between the houses, like homespun awnings in order to offer minimal respite from the burning sun.

The cloths used to block out the extremity helped to conceal the true extent of the filth that lay on the floor beneath. Even though the ground was veiled by daytime shadows, the stench remained no less putrid and foul. Flies and wasps hovered above the filth, buzzing and circling zealously.

The odor caused Ezralaya to swallow numerous times in an attempt to reduce the likelihood of her heaving her entrails up and out. The wretches nearby looked up to the sound of hooves and looked away once they saw only girls in tattered rags heading in their direction, the guards beside them never even seemed to register into their minds, likely because they weren't bedecked like the Gold Cloaks.

"What are your thoughts Princess?" asked Argo, whose dark brow glistened with sweat. His chestnut hands reach out to hold on to the bridle of Ezralaya's horse to keep it steady as a scurry of children dashed out before them, unshod and splashing through the watery puddles of human waste.

"Nothing seems too chaotic." She spoke softly whilst her eyes continued to wander, assessing the surrounding area. "The people seem rather placid, not as rancorous as I had thought." her horse trotted on forward, down through the maze of narrow allies, though no matter which direction they turned the same sights drifted past her peripheral vision.

"What do you think Argo? Is it safe to begin?"

"I should think so." His Summer Islander accent rippled off his tongue soothingly. He glanced around vigilantly. "They all look too somnolent to cause a riot." Ezralaya agreed, though she knew that whiff of sustenance beneath the noses of the ravenous had the power to invigorate the docile into a hostile mob.

"Indeed. Elinor Tyrell told me the worst sections are at the bottom of the Hill. She said the waste from Rhaenys's Hill and Aegon's hill flows down into the lowermost point." Ezralaya wasn't sure how close they were to the worst affected areas, though as they had entered Flea Bottom southward and as Rhaenys's hill stood so monstrously tall to their left, she assumed that they were close to the worst of it all. _Could it really get any worse? _Ezralaya wondered bleakly.

"We shall dismount in the courtyard ahead, and work our way southward from the centre." Argo nodded in agreement.

The eight horses were wheeled smoothly into the small courtyard, surrounded by rickety pot shops, derelict hovels and what looked like a dilapidated brothel, due to the girls that lingered in the door way desperate for custom.

Ezralaya instantly pitted them, _I was there once, _she reflected.

Except she had never been quite so shameless as to stand with her breasts hanging out like the girls across the Courtyard, nor had she ever uttered the profanities that they heralded in an attempt to lure over a client. _If the men can't afford food then they sure as hell can't afford to dabble with you.  
><em>

Each dismounted their horse and hit the floor with a splat.

"Eugh!" a grunt of disgust, distinctly Theodora's, sounded out louder than any of the others. "There's shit everywhere." She groused with revulsion.

"Theodora!" Boeenna reprimanded, trying to spare the curse from the ears of thirteen year old Cecily.

Accept Ezralaya had to admit it was a foul place, the worst they'd visited by far. _Thank the Gods we opted to wear boots. _

"Ladies." Her voice had them adhering to attention, forgetting the refuse of which they stood in.

They gathered in closer, forming a tight cluster. Her guard Caden, an ex-slave of Lys, began to distribute the coins of which he carried upon himself.

"We shall work our way downhill. Stay together and don't stray too far out of sight. If trouble arises, we convene back in this Court Yard." They all nodded in agreement and understanding. "Tread carefully, Sweet girls." They took heed of her warning, reading in to its depth.

As normal, Ezralaya, Theodora and Briar grouped off together as a threesome. Whilst Albany and Maxette formed a pair, leaving Bo, Gracengail and Cecily together as a trio. Callahan and Brenton stayed near Ezralaya's group, whilst Argo shadowed Maxette and Albany, and Monty and Caden charted the other three.

With a small sack of coppers in her grasp, Ezralaya wandered over to the three whores slumped against the splintered door frame, whilst jumping over and side-stepping wades and piles of noxious grime.

The girl most exposed saw her coming first and alerted the other two, both then straightened up into a defensive stance, seemingly ready to fight to the death if needs be.

"Who are you?" the tallest one spoke, reaching for the ties of her bodice to cover herself. Her teeth were black with rot, her face scared by a ravishing of pockmarks and her hair was a nest of lugs and tangles, fit for any bird to lay its eggs.

Ezralaya's fingers unravelled the knot that tied the pouch together, and delved shallowly to retrieve three groats from within. The three girls shot cautious, mistrusting glances to one another as Ezralaya offered them the coppers.

The stout, double-chinned one, who stood in the middle, spoke up; "What you doin' ere'?" despite her broadness, manly features and poor articulation, seen as she spoke like she had sand in her mouth, she was quite possibly the comeliest one of them all.

The third, furthest on the left, was little scrawny thing, with rat like traits and small beady eyes, which twitched every so often, especially when her brow narrowed in suspicion.

"Do you want it or not?" Ezralaya replied, her hand still held out to them, floating mid-air, with the three coins balanced in a cupped palm. Desperation triumphed over their caution, as they each reached out and snatched a coin from Ezralaya's hand, proceeding to tuck it down between their breasts for safekeeping. Ezralaya's empty hand returned to her side, whilst she awaited their thanks.

"What's this for?" the ratty one asked, with an incredibly shrill voice. "Who are you?" her twitching eye narrowed disbelievingly, staring at the copper as though it was sacred emblem. A groat was worth four pennies, which by the state of themselves and their _home_, was more than they earnt in a day.

"Just a…. generous stranger." Ezralaya smiled kindly, except the reveal of her perfect teeth palpably irked the girl who was not so fortune in that aspect, due the scowl that serrated her forehead with lines of annoyance.

"What you on about?" The rotten tooth girl snapped. "Who are you? And why are you givin' us coppers?" her tone harbored traces of malice, which caused Callahan, to step closer to Ezralaya's presence, to offer protection if necessary.

"Guards?" she added quizzically, rearing up as if to brawl. "Who are you to have guards followin' ya?"

"Wait a minute." The portly one spoke, a finger as round as a fatty pork sausage pointed out accusingly. "You that one, ain't ya?"

Ezralaya remained hesitant to speak. "The one that sailor told us about." She nudged both the girls beside her, in attempt to engage their memories. "He'd said that some rich Volantian whore was comin' over from Braavos, on a big ship. He'd seen er' and er' Ladies dockin', and headin' over to the castle." Her presumptuous eyes flicked back to Ezralaya's. "That's one of you, ain't it?"

"And if we are those you speak of, would it be a problem?" the three girls looked to each other, then shrugged indifferently.

"Spose' not." The little one squeaked.

"They call her the whore of the realm don't they? Richest woman too, only seventeen…" Her eyes trailed up and down, whilst Ezralaya herself tried not to stare back at the girl's ghastly pockmarks. "It is you?"

Callahan neared as she prepared to disclose her identity. "Yes. It is." Their jaws dropped incredulously, glancing to one another in disbelief.

"Really?" the tubby girl questioned. Again Ezralaya nodded. "The whore of the realm?" she added, as an extra hurtful slight.

"I do have a name – My name is Ezralaya Cosalario." She spoke, clearly to ensue clarification, that she did have a name other than the one that world loved to call her.

"How fancy." The tall one mocked, with a smile of rotten teeth, and the foul breath the match. "Why don't you come and work with us?" she jeered, and the other two snickered.

"I think not."

"Nah, she dines with King's now. Forgettin' she was one of us."

"If I'd forgotten I would not be stood before you now. I wish to help."

"Help?" one of them scoffed, though as they all had laughed Ezralaya was unsure of whom it had originated from.

The squeaky one piped up; "We're past help." She tittered like an amused mouse, accept her words were not at all laugh worthy. "This place is a bloody ruin. Founded on the shit of the Lannister's. We're a lost cause and living one step away from hell. No amount of bloody coppers are going to change that. Bet you ain't even seen the Sparrows behind the Sept."

"Well I'd like to try." None seemed to try and argue against that. Having nothing to say, they shrugged indifferently.

"Suppose' it's more than any of them in that big ol' castle are doin'" the tubby girl spoke, and the other two agreed with a side-bobbing nods.

"Anyway, I have other alms to give. I bid you all a good day." She went to turn, but the sound of the tall ones voice brought her to a halt.

"Is that it? Jus' a few coppers."

Ezralaya turned back on her heel. "For now."

"What else are ya gonna do?" the trio no longer stood so cautiously, and seemed more willing to accept her.

"I have plans to build bath houses and orphanages, homes for the elderly and the homeless, so long as his Grace King Tommen permits." Ezralaya answered, taking a step closer to try and gage their reactions of her plans. Though a closer inspection was unnecessary, as their disapproval was palpable, even to anyone observing from the other side of the court yard.

She clacked her tongue; "And ow's? any of that supose' to elp' us?" her hands rested upon her wide, blubbery hips, her neck jutted forward incredulously, almost as though she was determined to find fault.

"Well, what would help you?" Ezralaya asked, genuinely curious to know, as she assumed numerous brothels were scattered about Flea Bottom, the occupants all in the same dire circumstance.

The stocky one continued; "Why not set us up wit' one o' them fancy brothel's like you got – we'll work for you. Won't we girls?" again she nudged them with the points of her rounded elbows. Both consented with willing nods.

"Yeah – that sailor said you owned thousands of them." interjected the crater-faced one, whose scowl had finally receded.

"Not thousands. Only eight, and the majority in Volantis. Besides I don't want to open anymore."

Her eight brothel did all she needed them to do. Her brothels were not at all for the purpose of exploitation and coinage, there merely acted as a stepping stone, to help the girls who'd found themselves lost in the world, return back onto the path of righteousness. In Ezralaya's darkest days she had not been so fortunate as to be able to find such a place.

"Why not one more? We're good workers."

"I'm sure you are, but I am not here to open brothels." Their faces sunk as the rejection hit, and disappointed ensued.

She could feel her throat wanting to clench in regret, wanting to help them but opening a brothel did not seem like the way to do that. "I'm having Ceryneian fruits delivered from my Island of Salazay." They stared at her blankly. "I'll bring you some within the week, and if you can think of anything else I can do to help you or girls alike, within in reason, then I shall."

"Sure." They assented, though it was spoke skeptically. Ezralaya went to walk away, but then remembered her manners and turned back.

"What are you names? I never asked."

"Bessy." Spoke the plump one, as eloquent as ever.

The taller one spoke next; "Rhowna"

And lastly the wispy mousy one; "Scully" how_ fitting.  
><em>

"Till next time then." She smiled thinly, and then turned and waded carefully across the thick fluid ground beneath, flowing in revolting motions of brown sludge.

The remainder of the afternoon was spent in a parallel fashion, though fortunately the other recipients of Ezralaya's charity had not been quite so confrontational, and had merely accepted the coppers with words of thanks and blessings of grace.

A crippled woman's eyes had welled up in gratitude, an elderly man felt so indebted that he fell to floor in attempt to kiss her feet, though Ezralaya had helped him back up offering her cheek instead. Children had jumped and cheered in gratefulness, pregnant women had cried with tears of joy, and the men had sighed in relief knowing that their families would be provided for, even if only for a day or two.

Despite the fact that they were stood in the midst of the infested, gaping wound of King's Landing, glints of goodness were shimmering through amongst the squalor. Anywhere Ezralaya looked, signs of humanity, benevolence and appreciation were evident.

An internal warmth never failed spread through Ezralaya whenever she watched a desensitized face, come to life with an ounce of hope. Her Ladies were as avid as her, and so they spent timeless hours comforting the peasants of the city, offering them coppers and reassuring words.

Some offered embraces, others a warm, solacing smile. It was a heartening sight, which inspired both optimism and fortitude within them all.

As much as the sights of the encompassing area buoyed Ezralaya spirits, the enormity of the task they were undertaking had suddenly become all the more colossal. The vast extent of paucity spread on for miles and miles, and Ezralaya and her Ladies had not even covered a quarter. The distance was not necessarily the issue, but more so the quantity of people that inhabited the hovels.

The shacks looked so small, so compacted and overcrowded down the narrowest of allies that it seemed impossible ten or more could be in occupancy. The pouches of coppers had not lasted long with sundry coins going per _house. _Even so, thoughts of restoration were for another day, for at the present Ezralaya was content to watch people become overwhelmed by glee, with tear-washed cheeks and choking on words of thanks.

Ezralaya could not help feeling guilty in retrospect, when she had presumed that the inhabitants of Flea Bottom would be an inhospitable mob, maddened by greed and starvation like flies swarming on a meat carcass. Expect the rowdy, rambunctious horde she had predicted had in fact turn out to be the contrary. And it made her feel shamefaced to think that she had judged them so poorly.

The sky was coated with streaks and swaths of pewter; abundant with clouds profuse with darkness, as they cantered their horses back up Aegon's high Hill.

Theodora mare trotted up next to her own, the sound of their iron shod hooves echoed within the vast space of empty shadows.

"Are we going to the Great Hall tonight? I'm told there shall be dancing and singing." She asked, her cowl pulled off her head and bunching around her shoulders. "As well as feasting and drinking of course." Her added commented made herself chortle.

"No. I'm not going to, but you of course all go." Her tongue felt heavy, knowing that a lie was impending. Ezralaya hated lying, admittedly it would only be a little white lie, but that was still no more any truer than a big black lie.

Except, a small untruth felt like it would save her from a condescending earful and having to see frowns of disproval in every direction and that much made the lie seem explicable. For a girl who had spent her entire life living enwrapped by secrecy and fabrications, a lie still did not come all that easy to her.

"Why aren't you going to go?" Theodora asked, as they trotted together side by side, prying the darkness apart.

_Here goes, forgive me. _"I am meeting with…..Rosenthal Waters." A little weight was alleviated.

Theodora's brow creased in confusion as anticipated; "Who? I've never heard of her." _that's because she's a fabricated my dear, a __mere whim of the imagination. _

_"_I believe she is a bastard sister of one of the Tyrell Squires. She invited me to walk around the Godswood."

"Tonight in the darkness?" Theodora questioned sceptically, though her doubt seemed more directed to the intentions of the girl, rather than the authenticity of Ezralaya's words.

"She told me that it's all the more miraculous in the darkness, as the God's wander freely within the shades of night. She told me you can feel the spirits zest with the sap of the trees and within the grains of soil upon the ground."

"I thought you didn't believe in the Gods?" Theodora questioned offhandedly, gripping on tight to her horses reins, to steady her mares as its head began to frisk and frolicked in keenness.

"I don't but I thought I'd try and open my heart to them, even if only for one night."

"Very well. I hope it's an insightful experience." Ostensibly, Theodora had believed the lie, despite that she could usually smell a falsehood from miles away. _She's always been a hard one to dupe. _Though thankfully she had not seen it necessitous to question Ezralaya's intentions, _though why would she? Lying is a slippy slope one I like not to venture down too often._

Upon their return to the Red Keep, the girls stripped off within one of the disused yards in the rear of Maegor's Holdfast. Their filth caked boots were kicked off first never to be worn again, then came off their soiled gowns placed in a pile which would await the flames, leaving them in their underclothes. It was a relief to be spared from the unrelenting itchiness of the roughspun wool, and to feel the warm night time air caresses the irritation.

A young Maid bought them their bed robes, which them slipped on and then pattered barefoot back to their rooms, to change and dress for the night ahead, be it where ever their longings would lead them.

Boeenna and Theodora walked in Ezralaya's room a little while later, just as she was slipping into the dim pink dress that she had worn to breakfast with Queen Margery upon the morn just passed. Theodora looked mesmeric in emerald satin, a gown that had been a present from Ezralaya on her last name day. Whereas Boeenna was stilled donned in her bedtime robe, only now she wore a night cap atop her head, tied under her chin.

"Are you not going to the revelry Bo?" Ezralaya questioned, fastening the dangling tie upon her chest.

"No. An early night for me." she answered, seating herself upon the crimson velvet divans, positioned central within the room.

"Though Theodora tells me that you are not going either." Theodora took her place beside Boeenna, whilst Ezralaya smoothed out her gown against her body. "And that you're in the search for spiritual nourishment."

"I'm not sure about that." Ezralaya laughed self-consciously, feeling them both staring at her. She treaded down the five black marble steps, from the upper dais of which her bed stood upon.

"Is Argo going with you?" Boeenna questioned, as Ezralaya sat on the opposite divan, drawing a cushion upon her lap.

"No." she answered promptly. "I do not want to unnecessarily take him from the merrymaking."

"Well we all know that he'd rather be by you side." A hint of teasing was evident in the way Theodora's left eyebrow rose as she cocked her head sideways.

"No, no. I'd rather be alone with my thoughts."

"Are you sure though?" Theodora queried, out of concern. "I've never even heard of this girl."

"She could be dangerous." Boeenna added, trying to instil caution with her wavering tone.

"She's only about fourteen." Ezralaya counted softly, trying to put their minds at ease. _I'll be in the company of the Lord Commander of the King's Guard, could I be any safer? _

"Well as long as you are sure." Boeenna determined, she herself not entirely pacified. Ezralaya smiled conclusively to put an end to the topic of conversation.

"Anyway, Theodora will you re-plait my hair." Ezralaya asked, reaching behind herself to pull out the tie, allowing her hair to flow freely down her back without constraint.

Theodora agreed wordlessly, simply stepping over and sitting upon the opposite divan, seating herself behind Ezralaya. She ran her fingers through the soft golden stands, undulated in coils and curls, formed throughout the day.

"Will you do two single braids either side and then blend them into a mermaids braid, starting at the crown of my head, so that I can wear the headpieces that runs along my parting but droops down either side of my head with golden diamonds that looks like florals."

Boeenna and Theodora shared a wide-eyed glanced between one another and not by happenstance. And it did not gone unnoticed;

"What?" Ezralaya queried, perplexed by their glances.

"Such a splendid headpiece for a walk around the God's Wood?" Theodora teased, though a hint of suspicion was present. Ezralaya quickly bit down on her tongue, realising how carelessly she had spoken.

Ezralaya quickly rounded on a justification; "Who knows who I may see on my travels." She too teased, making light hearted nonsense of it all. "I must look by best for the Gods after all." _Though I sure the Gods are not quite so shallow as us mere mortals.  
><em>

"I suppose so. I best fetch the comb then." She pushed herself up, and headed over to the vanity table.

Ezralaya turned to Boeenna; "Are you ok?"

"Of course I am my dear, why'd you ask."

"Just checking. I mean you're going to bed so…." Boeenna's loving smile had Ezralaya's words straggling into silence.

"I'm tired." She laughed lightly at her own inaptness. "I'm an old woman compared to you girls I cannot keep up."

"You're hardly old." Theodora scoffed, settling down behind Ezralaya with crossed legs. She began to run the pearl encrusted comb through finding very few tangles, and so she began to entwine the four sideward braids.

"I am too old to be dancing the night away." She countered, with wide judicious eyes. "I would much rather read Lilia and Lalia to sleep, and then find that same peace myself." It sounded so delightful that it was hard to argue with. "And so with that notion. I shall bid you both good night." She pushed herself up, and headed over to them.

"Goodnight my darlings." With both hands she tenderly cupped Ezralaya's cheeks, drawing her forward and placing a loving kiss upon her forehead. She took a step to her left, asserting herself before Theodora, and replicated the same loving gesture that she had seconds ago preformed on Ezralaya. "

I love you girls more than life itself." She spoke so delicately that Ezralaya felt a lump form in her throat. Never as long as she lived would she ever tire of hearing Bo say those words.

"We love you too." Together they spoke as one.

Soon after, the girls headed on down to the Small Hall of Maegor's Holdfast, whilst remained behind. Ezralaya paced up and down with her reception room, circling around the fire pit and manoeuvring between the cushioned seats and futons. She lit a few more candles to occupy her mind, at the same time as consuming numerous cups of wine, in an attempt to steady her nerves.

Her rooms were seldom empty and so the unfamiliar silence seemed amplify the thuds of her heart. A light sweat glazed over her body and so she fanned herself to dampen the sheen. She checked her appearance, doubled checked, rechecked, once, twice, thrice, until finally, a knock heralded a timbered sound from beyond the door.

_J__aime_.

Her heart leapt and her legs trembled beneath the soft fabrics of her skirt. _Be still. Be calm. _She darted over to one of the futon's to perch herself, to look as natural as feasible in all her finery._  
><em>

She tautened every quivering muscle rigid, and called out, unintentionally coquettishly; "Come in."

_A little dalliance never killed a man. _

She inhaled evenly, bracing herself to for the emergence of golden hair, golden armour, emerald eyes and the dashing smile to match, however such exquisiteness did not materialised before her eyes.

"Argo?" Her disappointment was unmistakeable. He stepped forward, his dark features blending into the shadows whilst the whites of his eye glowed in contrast.

"Princess, what are you still doing here?" he questioned, as she rose to a stance and walked to meet him where he stood. "I thought you were going to the God's Wood."

"Yes – Yes I am." He'd thrown her off. His broad chestnut features acted as a literal stark contrast between him and whom she'd been expecting to emerge from behind the door. "Any moment. What are you doing?" her breath was rickety with unease.

"Theodora wanted her shawl, she believed she left it in your bed chamber. May I have leave to fetch it."

"Yes, of course." She swayed her hand in the direction of her bed chamber, offering him leave to prosper in his entreats. He headed off, his broad shoulders and heavy stride thundered upon the ground.

He reappeared a few moments later, said shawl in hand.

"Well you have a nice night then." She rushed over to usher him out. _Could I look any guiltier? I'm being as stealthy as a thief. _

Jaime would be arriving within the minute and Argo's hatred of him was by no means a secret as he wore his expressions as proudly as his armour. He'd never as much voiced his dislike, that was not Argo's character, it was more the way he balked with loathing or recoiled and flinched away entirely whenever his name arose in conversation, which of late had become all the more frequent.

"Is everything Ok Princess?" he asked, in a voice that reminded her of home, of Volantis, still so far away.

"Everything is fine." She answered blithely, throwing a hand on her hip and adding a laidback smile, whilst slowly moseying over to where the door remained open.

"Shall I escort you to meet your….friend?"

Oncoming footsteps from the exterior prevented an answer from being answered. Her heart fluttered and her stomach filled with a swarm of butterflies. _Jaime.  
><em>

She froze, gawking at him from the other side of the threshold. Her mind was benumbed, contrary to her tongue which vibrated with the necessity to speak.

"My Lord." Formality seemed appropriate. Jaime looked between them, dumbfounded, and Ezralaya glared back equally so. Except neither look as staggered as Argo, who seemed utterly bewildered and partially scandalised.

"May we help you Ser" Argo voiced with evident disfavour, seen as _Ser _was uttered under a belittling breath.

Jaime sauntered into the room, dressed in a long sleeves jerkin of soft fawn leather, collared by maroon partitions. It was the first time she could recall seeing him garbed in something other than armour.

Argo towered above them all, and his added height made his condensation seem all the more disdainful, primarily due to the way he looked down at Jaime.

Ezralaya stepped in, trying to find her footing upon the figurative crumbling foundations beneath her feet, all of which her lies were based upon.

"I completely forget." She pressed a flat palm to her forehead, as though remembrance had suddenly struck her. "We were supposed to speak of the King's business tonight, weren't we?" Her eye's urged him to adhere.

His face winced in response, bemused by the situation. She could see his mind ticking behind his eyes like jammed clockwork, as he tried to fathom what to say. "Yes, Indeed." His answer was sketchy, vague and rather implausible. He himself must had realised this, as he persevered on to fortify his answer;

"Yes to discuss the arrangements for when your trading ships once they dock." _Nicely remedied, _she thought with a supressed smile.

"So, mayhaps you Ser could escort me to my destination, enabling my friend Argo to return to the Small Hall."

A sense of terror seized Argo at the notion, "Princess…truly it's no trouble…."

Jaime spoke louder, and far more imperiously; "I would be honoured to." He shined a smile of arrogance after triumphing in a dispute once of which he was never meant to be a part of. She shot him a warning look to minimize his haughtiness.

Ezralaya turned to Argo, whose nostrils were flaring, and fists were clenched. She placed a calming hand upon the tensed muscles of his arm.

"I hope you have a lovely night. I will see you tomorrow." She smiled kindly, with a conclusive nod.

Initially Argo did not move, but remained where he stood, motionless, whilst assessing her shrewdness. After a moment, he shifted begrudgingly.

"Be safe Princess." She couldn't help but smile once again, this time a true, heartfelt smile. His words always had a way of plucking her heartstrings to the tune of Volantis.

Argo took his leave, though not before bestowing a look of pure aversion upon Jaime.

Jaime made light-heartedness of the matter; "Well he does not like me at all." Ezralaya chortled in relief, and shook her head hopelessly.

"You're late." Her face was stern, but she knew he'd be able to see the mockery.

"And so I am." He teased, grinning with a smile so beautiful that it almost quashed any trace of sardonicism. _Oh how he starts a frolic within my heart.  
><em>

Ezralaya closed the door behind them. He turned to look at her as they walked on forward together, side by side

"He dotes on you then?" Jaime spoke, traces of mockery wavering within his voice. _He's a virtuous vice. _

"Are you asking me or telling me?" her reply cut him short, as evidently he was not sure either.

"Asking I suppose." He replied, as they turned a corner, and passed under a sandstone archway, which then flowed into one of the main corridors of Maegor's holdfast. A water feature occupied the ourtyard that they walked along, separated by towering beige pillars. Night time occupied the world with is shadows and obscurities. Brazier's of stacked burned logs and tall iron brackets held thick tallow candles, both threw off orange luminosities which turned the shingle beneath to a river of fire.

"Maybe. My Ladies seem to think he does, though I value him more like a brother." She replied, "Besides he's married." She added as an afterthought, and then wondered if she had misspoken. _Argo would not like me discussing his private life with a man he loathes._

"He is? So why is he half a world away travelling with you?"  
>She hesitated but speak, but saw no harm in offering an explanation; "His wife, Eliza is deemed insane. She lives in a special institute where they try to help her."<p>

"What wrong with her?" Jaime questioned.

"No one really knows. She hears voice in her head all the while. She see's things that aren't really there. She's a danger to herself."

"How sad." Jaime responded, sounding sincere.

A silence passed, and during their silence Ezralaya began to observe their surroundings. Margery's words then echoed within her mind, in the same little excited chirps as she had spoken. An exclamation came without warning; "Can you show me the dragons!" he turned to looked at her, slightly startled.

"I suppose so." He answered, and veered them off into another direction.

Very quickly, they began to tread across unfamiliar territory. The corridors were a montage of dark woods and dusky reds, all of which seemed to narrow the corridors. Old relics of pottery, manuscripts and tomes, were scattered down the along to walls, stood atop end tables and within glass cabinets.

Warhammers and axes hung framed upon the walls, two crossed spears took precedence with sharpened blades and carved handles, an inscriptions was written upon them, though Ezralaya didn't had time to read it. They turned down another, thinner passageway.

"So where do they all think you are?" Jaime queried opening a door for them, gesturing for her to pass through. The world around them had become intensified by darkness, since fewer candles were dispersed meaning minimal golden light shone against their skin. The passage they'd entered was so narrow that Ezralaya had to walk in front of him, whilst he followed behind fulfilling the position of her shadow.

"The God's Wood." She couldn't help but smirk at him over her shoulder with a tantalising smile. The thought of her lies combined with their amorous ambiances and close proximity, had her feeling incredibly mischievous. She hoped the diamonds graven into her headdress were glistening in the light of the flames, shimmering and sparkling in tiny bursts of radiance.  
><em>I<em>

_ hope he thinks I'm beautiful, _she immediately regretted that thought, and wished to recant, however she knew a thought could never be un-thought and so decided to accept it for a moment of womanly weakness.

"I never had you down as a Godly woman." Not even looking, she knew he was smirking.

"I'm not." She assured. "You saw the look Argo gave you, believe me it's not worth the hassle. I'd never here the end of it."

"So is our time together limited?" he questioned from behind. His footsteps were pronounced and his voice very slightly gravelly. The feel of his looming presence made her feel giddy and flighty, and to some extent capricious. She couldn't recall ever feeling so enlivened, an exotic feeling of stimulation was surging through her with the momentum of a waterfall.

Olenna's cautions, Argo's distain and her Ladies words of disproval, were dispersed into the air, blown from the foremost depths of her mind, to a place never again to be contemplated.

"We have all night." Again she looked over her shoulder, a slight smoulder rested upon her upper lip, whilst her eyes smiled with seduction. "I'll tell them I became lost in my thoughts. Perchance purified by the Maiden." He laughed behind her.

_If I'm lucky perhaps I'll be besmirched by desire –no, no, no _she shuddered, trying to retract. _Do not forget yourself, _she chided, _you're better than that. My promise to myself is everything I am today.  
><em>

The walked further down the stone passageway, which was growing darker and darker, the end was not in sight, thick with a daunting blackness.

"Turn right through the door" Jaime spoke as they approached.

It was a hefty door, lined with strips of steel and locked by a large bolt of brawny Iron. Jaime reached forward and jerked at the fastening, loosening it and then sliding it open. He pushed at the door which took toil to budge. It opened with a fractious screech_, _as though it had been awoken from a contented slumber.

A pitch black void greeted them. Nothing but a condense shadows floated before their eyes, like some sort of enteral abyss. She was so consumed by the darkness that the light thrust before her vision, came as a blinding awakening.

"Take this – I don't know if anyone will have renewed the tallows down there. Men seldom go." Jaime instructed, passing over one of the burning torches that had once hung upon the wall. She received it and held it forward into the awaiting darkness whilst Jaime obtained his own source of light.

The light of the torch showed the silhouette of grey-slate stairs descending down into a corkscrew.

"Are we allowed down there?" Ezralaya questioned, daunted by what lay behind the darkness.

"Are you scared?" he goaded, nudging her with the point of his elbow.

"No." she affirmed staunchly. "I just don't want you to get in trouble." She reasoned, with a light shrug.  
>Though Jaime only laughed, as he always did; "I'm not going to get in any trouble." He resolved. "Go on. I'll be right behind you."<p>

She humphed lightly, readying herself to descend. After a reassuring glare from Jaime, she progressed forward.  
>No rail encircled the spiral-coiling stairs, and so Ezralaya gripped onto the grooves in the wall, steadying herself so not to fall and tumble, seen as the steps beneath were uneven and some broken.<p>

"Are you ok?" Jaime asked, following behind her. She felt bad for him seen as the wall was to their right, the side of his bad hand, and even so he had no choice but to hold the glowing torch with his functioning left hand, making his descent all the more hazardous. _Perhaps that why he wanted to be at the back to save himself the mortification of taking a tumble._

"I'm fine." She had the urge to look back and shine a smile of thanks, but the trek downwards was far too perilous to diverge from concentration. "How much further?" she questioned, feeling herself become dizzy and disorientated, and rather displeased when she realised she'd have to climb them afterward.

"No much. It's the next door." he answered.

After a few more twists and turns, they came to another door. Ezralaya had assumed that they'd have reached the bottom, however the twisting steps continued on as if forever.

"What's further down?" she questioned, holding her torch forward, and seeing nothing but curling steps.  
>"I don't know really." Jaime answered, opening the lock with the point of his elbow, and then kicking it ajar with his foot. "Storage maybe."<p>

Ezralaya reached forward and pushed the door forward from where he foot held it in place.

Behind the door, the faint glow of welcomed candle light gleamed before their eyes. The room was vast in terms of space, but not necessary in height. The cellar was compact with dense slate, sheathing the walls and floor, most likely making it feel smaller than its actual measurements.

Her breath got caught when she saw the vast array of vestiges that stood in perfect coalition. Her eyes prickled with tears. "Oh my." She whispered breathlessly.

Together they treaded down the rail-less ten steps that lead to the main floor, so that closer observation could be achieved. She ambled slowly, cautiously, over to the largest one of all. Jaime followed submissively.

Some of the skulls stood bigger than others. Despite that they were only solid chunks of hoary bone, inert and motionless, greyed by lack of natural light, the remains still emitted an almighty ferocity. Ezralaya shivered as she studied the distinct features, from the sharp edges of their teeth, to the crisp curve of their skull, and rounded nostrils that had once showered the world in a rain of fire.

"Can I touch?" she asked him with eyes aglow with vivid wonder. _Just like my dreams. _

"Well they aren't going to bite." Her face screwed up at his comment, she laughed aloud sarcastically with three _har-hars, _giving him exactly what he wanted.

She looked up to the mighty beasts, almost as though she was asking permission to lay her hand upon their magnificence. Gingerly, she reached forward, steadying her juttering limb as she did so. She placed her palm along what would have been the mighty beasts jaw bone. It was cold to the touch, ice cold, dead, though she felt it coarse through her; their power, fierceness, wildness, vigour and savagery.

Her eyes fluttered close and she could see them behind her eyelids, in the days of yore, soaring above the world with vast leathery wings, with claws sharper than any man made sword, metallic scales and dark, demonic eyes, roaring it's defiance at a sickle moon upon a black sky sliced by a torrent of orange flame. _The days of Valayria. _Ezralaya shivered as she inhaled the essence of the skulls, invigorating her soul, and stimulating her blood.

Her eyes blinked open and a single tear streamed down her cheek, she wiped it away before Jaime could see.

"Have they all got names?" she asked, curious to know what he was thinking as his eyes scanned over the colossal remains that had once ruled the world.

"I believe so. I used to know them, my father brought me to the Red Keep when I was just a boy and forced me to spend the days memorizing their names with the Grand Maester. And then at the end of the day, he'd make me recite them to him, as in those days the skulls were place within the Throne room for all to see. And only when I could name each one did he permit my studies to cease." A sadness coasted his words, be it out of his father's death or out resentment for the lessons.

"Can you remember any of their names?" Ezralaya asked.

Jaime exhaled, searching around the hollow vault as if to inspire his memory. She could see him casting his mind back over years' worth of history, trying to recall obsolete words back to the forefront of his mind.

"There was….Caraxes; the Blood Wyrm, who was ridden by Prince Daemon Targaryen if my memory serves me right and Dreamfyre was ridden by Princess Rhaena." He hummed as his mind strained. "There was Moondancer, Rallora, and Meraces. Vermithor; the Bronze Fury was always Tyrion's favourite."

A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips, however the realization of what he'd said quickly diminished any trace. _How awful it must be to know your brother killed your own father. His heart is hurting. _Words were unnecessary she knew, and so a tender touch said all that a thousand words could. He smiled, gratefully, though said no more with regards to his murderous brother.

He left her side and slowly ambled down the row of skulls. "That was the last Dragon." He spoke knowingly. Ezralaya followed his steps to stand by his side.

"The Dragonbane." He informed. Before them stood lay a tiny little misshapen skull, the same size a large dogs, and a pile of withered brittle bones by its side. "They say it was a girl Dragon." Jaime continued. "Died during the reign of King Aegon III, and left five eggs, though no one's knows where they are."

The little thing looked pitiful, and withered, how she assumed it had been in life.

"Have you seen any of the Targaryen's girl's dragons on your travels? They say she has three." He asked her.

"No, she has not yet broached Western Essos." She sighed; longingly; "I've only ever seen Dragon's in my dreams."

They clambered the stairs together, laughing as they wearied, and eventually surfaced into familiarity.

A few wandering souls who were not at the Revelry passed them offering a courtesy nods as they did so.  
>The nighttime had taken hold of the sky, as swollen, bulging clouds concealed the stars with a thick misty veil. The moon was a half crescent and hazed over by a leaden fog, which dimmed its shine.<p>

Ezralaya wondered how late it was. She had lost track of the passing of time, she assumed it was late. However the overall darkness, and the fact that she had been underground for a significant amount of time, made it hard to be sure. If she listened carefully she could hear the strumming of fiddles and lutes coming from the Small Hall in the distance, though that gave no indication, as revelries often lasted long into the night.

People tended to be so consumed by wine and exuberance that the passing of hours went unnoticed, until the arrival of dawn came as a rude reminder.

Ezralaya and Jaime exited through a side entrance of Maegor's Holdfast in pursuit of the White Sword Tower. The door led out onto a large of balcony, conjoined to serpentine steps which sprouted off in all directions.

A few of the terraces were bedecked with cushioned chairs, marble tables and canopies which looked down onto a combat-yard beneath. The terraces acted as a way for people to observe the knights and upcoming boys of nobility, practice their sword wielding skills.

Once they reached bottom of the winding white-stone stairs, they headed on down a small path beneath numerous arches ways, joined together by flowering vines which created an almost mesh like affect. Once the path came to an end the Lower Bailey opened by before them, with the White Sword tower standing impressively yonder, rending the nighttime sky in two. Maegor's Holdfast stood robustly to their right, with its crimson bricks turned into opaque grey shadows.

"That's the Barracks of the Gold Cloaks." Jaime informed, swaying his golden hand to the left. The building was nothing special, it was squarely built with the sharp edges. Two guards were manning the door, dressed in all their sparkling finger. Jaime gave them a respectable nod as they passed.

The White Sword Tower approached. It was a slender structure, pointed and chiseled, a four tiered edifice, with narrow window slits at the base, magnifying to large arching panes at the pinnacle. Tall black iron torches lightened the way over the entrance across a sandstone path, lined by a dumpy rampart.

They entered into a small vestibule like area, with tiled floors of beige and white, dashed by flecks of gold seeping in between the enameled insets. The walls were varnished by a glassy waxen sheen, festooned by pale golden shields, incised with the jagged edges of a King's Crown. On the far wall a statuette of a roaring lion provoking a rearing stag, blazed in gold and crimson, which stood atop a sleek circular topped end-table.

The antechamber was immense, bordered by slender pillars and numerous oaken doors laying upon the walls. Ahead, and central, a set of a coiling step stairs headed aloft, and to the far left, a short stunted flight of stairs headed downwards to a door overlaid by an iron grate.

"I'll show you the basement." Jaime spoke, offering his arm as they headed down the steps. "It's where we keep the artefacts of Kingsuards member from the past." He added, unbolting the door.

They entered a dim, square room, where four tallow candles burnt feebly. Ezralaya picked up the handle of one of the candles to light her way around. The room was crammed with tables and stocky units, the walls covered by glass-faced breakfronts teeming with relics and antiques. Shelves upon shelves were stacked and rammed full of books, withered by time with broken binders and flaking faces.

"What are all these?" Ezralaya asked, studying the sides of the books of which the golden writing was still decipherable.

"Just records and documentations." He answered straightening a slanted book with his five remaining fingertips. "Nothing important."

They ambled on around the room, manoeuvring in between the jutting cabinets and end tables stacked with curling parchments.  
>A sword, with a golden hilt and an illegible carving was engraved upon the blade, hung upon the wall, steadied by hammered nails.<p>

"Who's was that?" Ezralaya asked, noticing how the orange of her candlelight highlighted the traces rust which had tainted the edges of the blade with a ruddy discoloration.

"That was the Sword of Ryam Redwyne. He was considered the greatest Knight of his day. He served as both Lord Commander and Hand of the King. Though his time as hand is not remember fondly and ceased once King Jaehaerys I died." He stepped closer. "If you look very carefully you can still see the engraving of a cluster of grapes, which is still the sigil of the Redwyne's" she squinted slight and focused her eyes steadily, bringing her candle closer, and was able to see the outline of numerous grape-shaped circles, with a leafy stalk keeping them compact.

They moved along, whilst Ezralaya examined carefully all of the artefacts from times passed, waiting for something to catch her eye and demand further questioning.

"Whose was that?" Ezralaya asked, indicating to a helm blazoned with a tripartite of pale blue, red, and green on white, which stood out like no other she'd previously passed.

"Lucamore Strong." Jaime answered with a laugh under his breath, clearly aware of the man's deeds conducted through his life. "Though he's remembered as Lucamore the Lusty"

"Why?" her eyes went wide with intrigue of the evident scandal that had besmirched the noble Knight's name.

"He fathered sixteen children on three women." Jaime informed, with a smirk, knowing her jaw would drop in shock.

Which it did. "No!" she exclaimed aghast. "What happened to him?"

"He got sent to the Night Watch." Jaime answered, amused by her wide-eyed astonishment. "See that scabbard over there with the black winged heart stitched at the top?" He pointed, and Ezralaya followed his gesture.

When her eyes found what he'd descried amidst the heaped clutter, she nodded.

"That belonged to Terrence Toyne." The way Jaime had spoken the name, so mysteriously, yet contemptuously that her intrigue was heighted, making it palpable that a far more macabre tale shadowed his memory. "Ser Terrence was found abed with the King's mistress. Her name escape me though."

"Oh no." she braced herself. To dally with a King's possessions seemed deadly. "What happened to him?"

"He was er…" he looked to her, wondering if she truly wanted to know the gruesome ending of the licentious man.

"Go on." She probed, the suspense was maddening.

"He was dismembered piece by piece, before the mistress who was made to watch."

"Oh my God." Her hand came up to cover her jaw-dropped mouth. "How awful – what happened to the woman?" she asked, enthralled by the scandals of times past.

"I don't exactly but she was executed, her as well as her father I believe."

"Good God." It was dreadful and grotesque, and it evoked a though to mind that she had contemplated early. She laughed lightly to herself in irony; _perhaps dalliance can kill a man._

Once Ezralaya was content that she had everything that needed to be seen, they left the basement, and headed up into the armory.  
>The undercroft was a large room, thought smaller than the basement.<p>

The windows looked out on the wall of which the tower was angled against. Swords and scabbards lines the walls, with pieces of armour in designated places, raised to a perfect sheen. Polish boots and the foldings of chainmail were placed in large cabinets, as well as shields, helms and breastplates. The room was meticulously organised, with every item designated to a specific place, and ordered in accordance to size and shape.

The second and third floor were the sleeping cells of for the six brothers of the King's Guard, three to a floor. The door were shut and in occupancy, except for Loras Tyrell and Osney Kettleblack, who were both on the nightshift, guarding the King's bed chamber.

She poked her head around one of the doors. The rooms were spacious with a double bed sheeted by a coverlet of white velvet, as well as living space including a table and chairs for two, as well as cabinets and units for their belongings.

After, they headed upward to the next floor, circling around another twist of stairs. They walked partway down a wide beige stoned corridor, with light oak floors and came to halt at a large, hulky door. Panelled and sanded.

"This is the Round Room" Jaime spoke, as she entered past the threshold.

She cooed aloud in approval. "I like this room" this spoke charmingly, as her eyes assessed the grandeur of her surroundings. As its name implied, the room was circular, with whitewashed walls, panelled by patterned wood, segmented in swirls. Huge silken tapestries draped down from the ceiling.

Large windows were situated under curved domes, with an array of swords hanging on the wall above, bowing with the arc of the wall. Diamond shaped iron grates lay imbedded within the glass. Bronze sconces hung upon the wall, three stout candles to a tier. A large table took pride-of-place in the pivot of the room. The table was carved out of white weirwood, fashioned into the shape of a shield, with seven tall oval-backed chairs orbiting the feature.

She meandered around the room, her flat palm caressing the smooth surface of the table. "It's beautiful." Her neck rolled back as she glanced up at the jewel adorned ceiling. "What do you use this room for?"

"A meeting space." Jaime answered. "Wine?" he questioned, as he lifted up a decanter brimming with royally-red liquid.

"Yes please." She smiled, he poured the liquid carefully. She sauntered over to retrieve her golden cup. She waited until he'd poured his own before taking a pit.

"Cheers." She offered her cup high in the air for him to chink.

"What shall we drink to?" he asked, holding his own near hers but not quite touching.

"Health and happiness?" she suggested.

"Sounds good to me." their cups joined with a metallic chime, and they both drank to those words. The wine was Dornish, sweet, yet harbored a fiery after taste, which scorched the vessels within her chest, unfurling through her like droplets of wildfire. Eventually the heat lessened, leaving behind a pleasant warmth.

"That's nice." She sighed, feeling her taste buds crave for more. They seated themselves side by side at the table, pulling out the tables to face one another, once settled she took another large gulp. Reveling in the taste, and the feeling of it tingling her sensations.

"Can I ask you a question?" Jaime asked, settling his cup upon the table, the fingers of his left hand, circling idly around the rim.

"Only if I can ask you one." She grinned, with impish eyes.

"Very well." He consented. A seriousness took over his countenance and she sensed his question was going to be of the solemn type.

"Are you….do you if you're…." his words trailed out in unease, but quickly he found his voice; "Are you highborn?"

"Highborn?" Ezralaya feigned laughter down into the orb of her cup.

"I know your beginnings were troubled, but I just wondered if maybe, I don't know, you were the bastard of some highborn Lord, or something." He scratched at the back of his head in discomfiture.

"Well not that I know of." Ezralaya answered nonchalantly, trying to lessen his unease. "Why do you ask?" she queried, curious to know of what thought process his question had stemmed from.

"I don't know there's just something about you that seems…..highborn." his eyes squinted as if searching for a visible answer.

"A woman named Roseney raised me, and she never mentioned anything about me being of noble origins."

"But you were born in Westeros?" Ezralaya nodded. "So there is a chance."

She shrugged, dismissively. "I suppose."

"Where in Westeros were you born?" he asked, picking at her barrier of self-preservation, which acted like a force field around her mien.

"Dorne." Ezralaya answered simply.

"Dorne?" he repeated incredulously, with a crumpled brow. "Well you aren't Dornish." He said assuredly.

"And how do you know?" Ezralaya answered feistily.

"Dornish men are black haired and browned skin, with dark eyes, thickly lashed. You're…. quite the contrary." She watched and felt his eyes wander up and down her fair form. Her chest burned with blazing prickles of heat when his gaze fell and wandered over her bare skin.

"Did that Roseney you spoke of, really never tell you of your origins, surely she must have known to have raised you from a babe in arms?" he questioned, delving a little bit deeper, wading into delicate matters that she preferred not to openly speak of.

"I never thought to ask. I was ten when she died."

"Oh, I'm sorry." His lips thinned in empathy.

_I shall open his eyes to the hardship and sufferings of this world _she thought; "The whole Island of Salazay was wiped out." She remembered the events of that fleeting week so clearly within her mind it felt as though it were happening only moment ago. _Seven years since Roseney last held me, and made my little world complete. _

"The whole isle? How many people." Jaime questioned, horrified by her telling's.

"Just over a hundred."

"And only you survived?" she nodded slowly, feeling a sense of shame encase her.

_Why did the stranger not claim me? _She often asked herself, _why was I spared when so many worthy lives were turned to stone_?

"What caused it?" he asked.

"Volantian's called it the Grey-plague. It turns to whole body to stone, similar to Grey Scale, though Grey-Plague kills a person within the day of contraction."

Jaime looked dismayed. Then again his childhood had been filled with pomp, pageantry and riches, within the walls of a majestic palace. He'd never seen a man die until he'd come of age, and only then by choice. _He doesn't know half of it. He's from a whole different kind of world.  
><em>

"That's awful." His face showed the revulsion he felt in contemplation. "I'm sorry. Though the Gods must have plans for you, you were indeed very, very lucky."

_Was I? Was I really lucky to escape death but to live a life in hell? _There were time oft in the dingy cesspit of Madame Volanti's brothel where she wished she'd died that day along with Roseney, and she berated the Stanger, for leaving her to a live a life where she longed for death.

Only now, in her prime did she count herself lucky and pay thanks to the Stanger for his mercy.

"Indeed." She smiled sadly. A silence passed over, as she remembered those that had been lost to the Grey.

"Go on then, what's your question." he seemed slightly tense at the prospect, though his question did seem to lighten the mood.

_"_Urm…" _Now's your chance, _she thought, "Hmm…"_Ask him! Ask him; are you priming me for the Queen, are you spying and manipulating me, ask him; do you bed your sister. Ask him! _

So many questions swirled within her mind, in streams of thought too fleeting to decipher. Though she couldn't bring herself to voice any aloud. She knew if she asked a daring question, he'd wear the truth upon his face, and she just couldn't bear the idea of reality shattering the perfect illusion she was living within, and then be forced to watch it crumble before her eyes.

She adorned the Jaime sat before her and did not want to blight his wonderfulness by the truths of callous rumors. _Not yet. _And ultimately if the truths were what she feared, it'd mean that everyone else had been right about him, and she had been wrong.

"I'll save my question for another time." she answered, meeting his eyes.

He seemed surprised, and slightly bemused by her hesitance. "Hm. Very well." He took a sip of wine.

A silence emerged, as their eyes measured the other, wavering up and down in intrigue. "So." Ezralaya sat up from where she had begun to slouch. "Tell me, how you came to be on the Kingsguard."

Jaime took note, and he too straightened his posture, ready to divulge. "I killed the Smiling Knight, during the campaign against the Kingswood Brotherhood. Ser Arthur Dayne Knighted be that very day." His persona had taken on a wistful bearing; "When I returned to the Red Keep, I found out that my father was planning to marry me off to some girl from the Vale. And so my sister made the necessary arrangements so that I could replace Ser Harlan Grandision on the King's Guard." _She made arrangements so she could keep him close, _she thought, but did not dare voice it aloud_. _

_"_A moon's turn later, I was upraised to the Kingsguard by the Lord Commander in a ceremony during the tourney at Harrenhal." He seemed oddly sad recalling what was a momentous achievement for a boy so young.

"My father was beside himself with fury. But he could not speak out against the King." he sighed, sadly; "I quickly realized that the _honor _I had been bestowed with was merely to deprive my father of his heir." Ezralaya could see that a deep-seethed bitterness was surfacing within him as his fist clenched hard, turning his knuckles white.

He downed the remaining dregs of his wine, and poured himself another, and then leant forward to top up Ezralaya's cup. The wine teemed cheerily at the rim. Ezralaya wasn't sure what to respond, so instead she smiled, which fortunately made him smile once realizing how forlorn he had grown. He shook his head, and ran his fingers through his golden hair, trying shake off the feeling of resentment.

"I went down into Flea bottom today." She began, pricking at his attentions as always. "It's a rather dire place down there – have you been down?" she doubted he had, but still hoped.

"Erm. No. not recently." Her eyes narrowed in search of an exaggeration. _I don't think you have been down at all Ser. Too high up in the towers the Red Keep, to behold the poor men below.  
><em>

_"_Perhaps you should – it may…humble you." This time, it was his eyes who narrowed, trying to find the meaning belying her implication. "Seeing people surrounded by vermin, housed in crumbling hovels within a slum that's slowly sinking into a river of shit that lines the streets, would quickly make you realize that there are greater sorrows in the world than a Mad King's slight."

He took her revile as silently as a hair being plucked. His eyes slightly widened at her effrontery and his tongue was most likely pressed between his teeth to prohibit a biting retort, but still he said nothing. _He knows it's true. _

_"_Perhaps you could accompany us on our next excursion?" Sadly, he did not leap to accept her offer.

"Ah. I don't know if that's such a good idea." He responded uneasily. _How graceless of you Ser.  
><em>

_"_Why?" Ezralaya question, disappointed in his meagre attempt of dismissal.

"My family name is seldom spoken fondly amongst the people." He answered, as if it would be reason enough.

"Well I know that. I've heard firsthand the things they think about your family, specially your royal sister." He did not waver, _He knows they despise her. _"You could change that though." He looked unconvinced, a faint shake of his head stirred his neck muscles in rebuff.

"How? Sometimes hate is best left to seethe, rather than trying to mend the unfixable and causing it to boil over." He paused, an inhaled a hollow breath. "Those people rioted against my family you know."

"Because they are desperate, and starving." Her eyes implored him, her body bending forward closer to him, as though reaching out, in search of his better nature; "Please." She besought, her hands pressed together, as if in prayer.

"What can I do?" he asked, with a doubtful shrug.

"Offer charity and show them that those in the Red Keep care. Be an envoy on the King's behalf, make them love their King, make them love you." She reached forward, pressing a gentle hand upon her forearm. He looked down, and allayed beneath the gesture.

"I don't know….." she could hear in his voice that his resolve was rendering, yet hesitancy remained.

"They would not fight for the King if I came to it, they would yield to a new regency in the hope of a better life. Give them a reason to fight for your cause" Jaime nodded, understanding what was evident to anyone with half a brain. Her urging body, striving for his assent, had brought them closer. "Say you will…." Her voice had dropped to a husky whisper.

"I'll think about it." his words were voiced as a promise, which for now, she was contented with. She nodded in concord.

"I know there's a goodness in your heart." She couldn't keep her eyes still as they persisted in wandering over his features. Her heart had hastened within her chest. "I can tell." Her eyes smiled to him.

"How?" he questioned, his face void of sentiment.

"Because….. You've spent hours showing me around and answering half a million questions, because you always come to my defense, and because you danced with me and made my night so wonderful that I'll never forget it." Her voice remained low and alluring as he strained to hear. Her laying hand had ceased to move.

"As will I." he smiled softy. _I made him a dancing man, I can surely make him a benevolent one.  
><em>

A silence fell o'er, save for the thumping of her heart within her temples. Her breath was trembling as it exhaled through her parted lips. _What's happening to me? _She swallowed shakily, as his eyes wandered in-between her own and her quivering lips.

_Be still heart, be still. _Jaime's chest was rising a falling, much like her own, except a tinging of apprehension stained his face.

An intensity was rising, thriving by the second into the promise of something inexorable.

_God's preserve me.  
><em>

From nowhere, Jaime launched forward, and pressed his lips to hers, sealing the gap between their furtively impassioned bodies. At first she froze as his hot, frenzied lips toiled against her own. Her eyes bulged in disbelief. Ezralaya's mind at first could not quite fathom her predicament.

She wondered if she was fantasizing, perhaps hallucinating, or possibly in the midst of a drunken dream. But her eyes blinked and the world her eyes had left behind, was revealed to her again at their reopening. It wasn't until the feel of his tongue caressing against her bottom lip, that she began to react to his advances.

The union of their lips was fiery and feverish, intensified by the workings of their tongues which stroked and caressed with the precision and passion of a Volta.

As quickly as it had been instigated, it came to an abrupt end. Jaime wretched his lips a way with a smacking pucker, hurling up from his chair and moved to brace himself against the wall, his head hung low.

Ezralaya could barely catch her breath, her lungs and chest so animated that neither could function. She collapsed back into her chair to steady herself and recuperate the breath that she had relinquished in the expense of passion.

Her lips were tingling with the memory of his, burning in truth. She pressed her fingers to them, and felt the swellings of ardor flaming beneath. Her teeth nipped at a cuticle, as she looked over at Jaime, bowed forward and seemingly repentant.

"Forgive me." he spoke breathlessly, as he pushed himself up. Though still he could not turn around to look upon her. "Forgive me." he echoed ruefully.

"Jaime." She spoke with bated breath. His fists tightened, ensuing further penance. She pushed herself to a stance, and slowly approached him, cautious when nearing his tensed figure.

"Jaime." She spoke again, tentatively reaching forward which a quaking limb to place a palm upon his rigid-drawn shoulder. Though she'd not been cautious enough, as he flinched and balked away. She recoiled at his brusque refutation.

"I am very sorry." He turned to her. His straying eyes a concoction of contrition and anger, and bustling lust.

"Jaime." She tried again, though her voice was too feeble against his denial.

He was beset with panic; "I shall have someone escort you back to your rooms." He went to maneuver around her to get to the door, however she stepped in his way, and placed an obstinate hand upon his chest prohibiting further movement.

"What are you doing?" he questioned, trying to side-step her once again, though she moved along with him, like a human barricade.

"Will you stop for a second?!" She panted, airlessly, but fiercely. "Just stop." She spoke as firmly and commandingly as she could, and finally he took heed. She removed her arm, content that he would remain.

His breath was still uneven, and eyes roamed everywhere but upon her, fraught with desire and fearing temptation.

"Will you look at me please?" her voice had attained the gravelly sound of anger.

"I can't." despite his words he did. Inner turmoil was amounting and could been see through his eyes which acted like windows to the soul.

"You need to go. Or else…."

"Or else what?" she uttered blithely, her arms flailing in pursuit of an answer. "Or else what?" annoyance was surfacing in response to his taciturnity.

"You know what!" he exclaimed stridently, but she did not scare, she remained steadfast. They glared at one another, frozen in time, with hot blood surging through their veins. In the stillness, Ezralaya tried to appeal to her conscience to offer her wisdom and guidance in her time of need, however the voice of reason within her mind had abandoned her. She listened but had become deaf to the guidance of her inner integrity. _  
><em>

With a tender hand, she reached up and cupped his cheek.

_Gods forgive me.  
><em>That same hand slid around his neck, whilst she elevated herself upon her tiptoes. With their faces inches apart, and his own reservations still present, she pressed her lips to his. Slowly and softly, her lips brushed against his.

She felt him shudder in desperation to partake. After a moment, and a caress of her tongue, she felt him reciprocate. His arm wound around her waist drawing her closer, which caused tingles to spread across her body. She whimpered mid-kiss as she hit the solid wall of his chest. Her two arms encircled his neck, urging him closer, as their kisses began to rekindle the passion they had shared only moments ago.

Ezralaya had never been properly kisses, admittedly she'd been kissed a hundred times or more, but she had never been _properly _kissed. She'd never be held or caressed when being kissed, like how Jaime was. She almost felt like weeping, when she felt his hand stroke up and down her back, touching her plaited hair as he did so. The heat was increasing, and their embraces were becoming messy, which somehow added to the frenzy.

A throbbing sensation that she had not felt for a long time, and never felt quite so intensely, began to pulse between her thighs.

Her mind was so consumed with fervor, and the feeling of Jaime body against her own, that she failed to register that he was guiding them over to the table. In fact, she only truly comprehended what was happening, when she felt her thighs hit the edge of the shield-shaped table, and realized that she was being hoisted up onto it.

"Jaime." She whimpered, as her legs were spread and he asserted himself in-between them. He hummed in response, quickly covering her mouth with his own. Her legs inadvertently coiled around him, wanting him closer.

Her hands ran across his back, and to his waist, as their mouths continued to work at a blistering pace, with their tongues lashing and fighting for dominance. She felt him moan into her mouth, and the once dormant pulse between her legs began to ache with need.

The emergence of these foreign sensations excited her, as much as they frightened her, though she paced on through, focusing and reveling in the feel of Jaime's lips traveling down the column of her neck. He tugged at the tie on her dress that dangled in-between her breasts. The two strings fell open, and he push her dress off one shoulder, where he proceeded to ravish her neck and shoulder with sharp licks and hot kisses, which left her breathless. Her skin was on fire, burning and blazing like an almighty conflagration.

"Oh god." Her head tipped back, she braced herself back on the table. Jaime mouth trailed back up, latching and sucking onto her desire swollen lips. He pressed his body into hers, his hand on her lower back urging her closer, though this time, she felt a hardness press between her legs. She froze.

A once simmering panic, quickly morphed into fear, and yet the feel of Jaime kisses, and the throb that had only intensified had an odd way of dispelling her fear. She fought through her anxiety, cradling his head as he kissed her and delighting in the feel of his touches, all of which hand become far needier, and subliminally rougher.

She felt his hand leave her back, and brought forward, proceeding to fumble down between their bodies. She glanced down and saw that he was pulling open the ties of his breeches. Despite being consumed by dread, she knew what was coming. She knew what it would feel like once he was inside, but the thought of the initial penetration made her feel faint and nauseous.

_This is Jaime, _she affirmed to herself, _this is Jaime, not some seedy stranger.  
><em>

_You want him. You're on fire for him.  
><em>

In affirmation to herself, and as brazen as she could be, she reached down and up her dress, to unfasten the ties of her small cloth. She felt his chest growl when he realized what she was doing. He reached down to help her, his five fingers trailing up the velvety surface of her thigh, to untie the other side. He yanked at the tie and it came undone, he slid it down her legs and threw it onto the floor.

She pressed her lips to his once again, holding them there for a while, pursed and desperate, trying to calm and reassure herself. Once done, she gripped onto him, and looked over his shoulder, bracing herself for the feel of him against her most sensitive part.

She needed him. Desperately she needed him. She needed him to fill her up and work her to completion, and yet at the same time she needed him to cease his actions, and take her back to her own bed. However the latter seem unlikely, as she felt him grunt in relief as his breeches came undone.

She didn't look, merely closed her eyes and stared into the comforting darkness, inhaling his sweet musky scent. _Seven save me from my sinful lusts. _Ezralaya tensed and her eyes screwed up as she felt the blunt tip of him probe into her. His was moaning and grunting unutterables into her ear, his hot breath trickled down her neck like liquid lust. He pushed on forward, through the wetness that was a tangible sign of how just desperately she wanted him.

She cried aloud as his breached her, tears streamed down her cheeks as a piercing sting settled between her legs. She made sure he didn't see her tears, as she nestled tightly into his neck, peppering encouraging kisses, and made sure he didn't hear her cries by turning them into moans of pleasure.

It had been a long time anyone had occupied the place in which Jaime's member fitted so perfectly, and the fact it took him numerous thrusts and attempts to sheath himself fully within her, demonstrated her abstinence. Eventually the sting receded and pleasure ensued. She pulled back to look upon him, he was drowning in desire, his eyes heavy with arousal, and his mouth emitting exhales grated by grunts. She pressed her lips to his, moaning into the kiss, and clamping her legs tightly around him. She glanced down to their intimated joining.

_Heaven, _she thought. _Never has anything ever felt so wonderful.  
><em>

She tilted herself at a backward angle so that she could offer tiny thrust in response to his. Her first buck back caused Jaime to emit a groan so sweet she thought the noise had caused her climax to come upon her.

Never had Ezralaya ever felt so complete and so wholly attached to someone. She felt a part of him, and he of her. There was a connection far more profound that went far beyond their physical intimate union, _one of souls_. She trembled as his breath bristled her sensitive skin. Their sweat mingled as their bodies rocked in unison. He felt so deep and thick within her that she was sure she may faint.

Once particular brutal thrust on his part, had her shrieking in pleasure, visibly trembling as she keeled back onto the table, so that she was flat on her back. He followed her forward, bracing himself either side of her body, whilst her legs came up tight around his waist.

He found her lips once again, as he quickened his pace, delving harder and fast into the tight warm swamp. Her eyes fluttered shut in unadulterated bliss. She was panting frantically and fitfully. It was all becoming too much to fathom; the feel of him deep inside her, the stretch of herself, the feel of his lips and hand tracing her body.

It was overwhelming and all-engulfing and she could do nothing but adhere.

It hit her like a tidal wave, her whole body spasmed, as every fibre became ignited and sparked with utter pleasure. Her back arched as euphoria took hold. She flailed wildly upon the table. She cried as rapture soared through her veins, harmonized by the melody of Jaime's moans.

She'd never in all her endeavors, despite being worldlier than most, ever felt such blessedness paralyze her in such heavenly captivity.

His hips pumped erratically as he neared his end. She cupped his cheek, and strained for his lips as his warmth gushed within her. He heralded his relief with a pleasure teeming moan, his chest growling with gratification. His hips came to a still and his weight came down onto of her. She held his head to her bosom, feeling the glazing's of sweat coat his brow. His breathing was deep and concentrated, as he fought to attain air to refill his lungs.

Heat radiated off their bodies like they were embroiled by the threads of the mid-day sun.

Once his breathing had evened out, he looked up to her and smiled softly, she urged him up for one last moist kiss, their lips detached with a soft pucker.

He stood up, retrieving his softening member from within her warm depths. She whined as she felt him slip from within her, mourning the loss of something that had made her feel so whole. He turned away to tuck himself back into his breeches, to which she too stood and re-donned her small-cloths, tying them loosely as her hands were still trembling too much to be able to do them up any tighter.

"So." He leaned against the table near her, whilst she straighten and refastened her gown. "How much do I owe you?" Her whole body went cold, her heart came to a repellant halt.

_What? _She remained as stiff as a corpse. Tears burnt in her eyes in puddles of fury. _Did he really just utter those words? _She couldn't bear to look at him, her eyes squeezed shut, hoping to sink into the black void before her eyes.

_I will not shy away. _She turned to him, with eyes enraged by abhorrence to masque the hurt.

"How dare you!" She snarled through gritted teeth, feeling a tear of anger escape and trail down her cheek, abating the heated passion that had once flushed them ruddy.

"Ezra…." Her eyes were blind to everything aside for the blurring's of tears, she could not even gage his expression.

"How dare you!" she repeated, though this time, her arm lashed out, and struck him across the cheek with a blow that echoed. "How could you!?" Her voice trembled as she felt hysteria beginning to seize her like some sort of convulsion.

Before he could see her tears and the hurt he's caused, she darted across the room and headed out of the door. She flung herself around the coiling staircases, the world turning into one big distortion as dizziness and anguish assailed her.

He was calling her, but she fled like an absconder. _He'll never know the hurt he caused my heart,_ she resolved within her frisking, anguished throbbed mind._  
><em>

She felt bilious, and violated. Faint and disorientated. _Am I stood within a paradox?  
><em>

_How could he say those words? We promised. _Her heart clenched in ache. The betrayal was too painful to contemplate. _I trusted him. I thought he cared. _But no. _He used me like the whore I am. _A cry of woe resounded from her shuddery lips as she broke free into the outside world. _It's my own fault _she determined, _I offered myself up like a meal.  
><em>

A promise made to herself, which had been maintained and preserved for more than a year, had been broken in a matter of minutes. _And for what? For nothing. _For her to open her legs and show her true colours and all that she was good for.

As she hurried further back into the castle, she felt a wetness seep between her legs, she ignored it. But the realization of what it was brought her to a sickening halt. _Him. _She swallowed in revulsion, in regret, in hatred of herself and what she'd done, what she'd let him do to her. Her chest ached as she doubled over in hurt.

Guards were approaching on their night-time patrol, and so she swiftly carried on moving before any questions could be asked.  
>She entered her rooms a few moments later, her cheeks stained by tears and her cries stifled within her chest, burning up into her throat they felt so suppressed. She collapsed down onto the divan and cried into the soft velvets beneath.<p>

"Ezra?" a soft voice called. _Theodora. _

There was no point in trying to masque her woe. Theodora had heard the sounds of her cries, and would know by all account come the morning that something what amiss.

"Oh my darling what's wrong?" she pushed the weight of the blankets of her, and dashed down from the raised bed to be by Ezralaya's side.

"Tell me what's wrong?" Ezralaya slackened into her friend's arms, and wept into her body. Theodora inhaled sharply, "Why are you so hot? What's made your blood boil so?" she asked, stroking her mussed hair.

The more her cries wracked her fragile body, the tighter Theodora held her.

"Desire." Ezralaya hissed, "And Hatred."

"For whom?" Theodora asked, holding her tightly. Silence followed, as Ezralaya's mewling took hold. "I thought you were at the Godswood." She shook her head, bemused, and too tired for thought.

Theodora craned her neck to look upon her weeping friend.

Ezralaya tried to speak but her whole face crumpled; "I can still feel him." she cried softly, panting need for breath.

Horror struck Theodora's face; "Have you been with a man?" Theodora did not sound angry, but disappointed, which was oddly worse to stomach. "Have you?" Ezralaya nodded down into Theodora's chest.

Theodora seized her body and forced her upright. Ezralaya felt weak and boneless, her head fell forward as though her neck bone had dissolved within its cavity.

"Who?" Ezralaya visibly withered in disgust of the remembrance of her deeds. Shaking her head in denial of what she'd done, of all that she'd given away.

"Promise… prom…" she couldn't even articulate, as doleful stutters had consumed her. "Promise you…you…won't hate me."

Theodora's brow creased, as she looked on at Ezralaya in mystification.

"Hate you? Ezra I will never hate you. I love you more than words, you know that." She leant down and kissed her cheek, which came as a reminder of the copious tears she had shed within such a concise amount of time.

Ezralaya tried but she just couldn't bring herself to utter his name. The thought of his name made her tongue taste like acid. "I want a basin of water, to wash myself." _And to cleanse the stickiness between my thighs. _

"Yes, I'll get you one in a moment. Some warm water and cloth, and then we'll change for bed, and you drink some mulled wine to lull you off into a peaceful sleep."

Ezralaya nodded, all she wanted to do was sleep, forget the night and to wake up to find it had all been a dream.

"But first, tell me who's made you feel so wretched."

_I have to tell her, _she knew, _she'll figure out if I don't, and that'd be somehow worse.  
><em>

She clenched every muscle, so not to quiver or jutter, to fortify her inner strength;

"Jaime." She uttered under a shuddering breath. "Jaime Lannister."

* * *

><p><em>Let me know your thoughts! Thank you for reading, till next time….<em>


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